Fiery Emblems
by thefilmchick
Summary: Sequel to Seminole Bingo: As the connections become clearer, and they start to figure out the island, will the Lostaways trust or lose their way? Again, focus is on Sawyer and Sayid, many flashbacks. Language, horror, war violence. R&R welcomed.
1. Numb as a Statue

**I: Numb as a Statue**

Since the crew rescued him, they've been traveling for at least a few hours in the truck. They have to have gone a while, so the island must be plenty big. The trip at night is quiet and solemn, lulling him to sleep. Despite his urge to stay awake, to make sure he knows what is going on, he's far too tired to stay awake. If the others riding in the back of the truck have questions about what happened to him, they don't get voiced, and he's grateful for that, at least. He does not want to tell them anything – not yet, not before he knows where he is and what is going on around him and what he's expected to do. He can keep his secrets for a little while longer, and he plans to do just that.

Confession is no good for the soul. He knows just what he has done in his life, and feels no better for it. Talking about what has gone on over the past few days before he has the chance to plan it will do none of them any good, and will do him only far worse. For now, though, he doesn't have to worry, and he takes the opportunity to relax, stretching out and stargazing and then feeling his lids grow heavy, letting them shut.

He's fallen asleep in the back of the truck, and so when it comes to a jolt, he wakes up with an uncomfortable start. "Damn it, learn how to drive!" he calls towards the cab, glaring towards the wheel space that he'd been thrown against. Unfortunately, he doesn't get a response from the driver, but things aren't that bad. It was a good sleep while it lasted, and he feels a little better, and the best thing is that he hadn't dreamed at all for once. It's the first time since he got here, and that blankness to his imagination feels pretty good. He's done too many bad things, seen too many bad things, to make dreaming something he enjoys doing.

After he's managed to drag himself up, Sawyer jumps off the back of the truck, feeling his head pound when his feet hit the ground, but it doesn't matter. Not really. Probably someone just hit him, some freak back there, and he can worry about it later. He looks past the truck to where it was pointed towards, sees the path closed up before them, overhanging branches and some damn tree in the path.

He could get the truck through there, but not that easily, and he'd have to chop down the tree first with an ax that they probably do not have. And even if he bothered, the truck would be likely to get stuck somewhere, and he wouldn't really like getting out at some godforsaken hour of the night and pushing the damn thing closer to the hatch. If he'd been asked to do it, he wouldn't have done it now, either.

"So, Fat Albert here decided to play Daniel Boone. Smart." He leans against the truck, waiting to feel all right again. His ankle twinges in pain occasionally, but it wasn't like the bullet actually hit. They're only batting five hundred with the bullets. He doesn't plan to help them up the odds. Instead, he tries to make conversation with Hurley, as if to make up for the name-calling. He only has one thing to say, though. He can't think of anything else. "What were you gonna do out here?"

Hurley stares blankly. His mouth opens and closes a few times. He doesn't have a good answer, Sawyer knows, and he can feel his eyes narrow. _Stupid kid,_ he thinks, but avoids sharing. Instead, he waits for Hurley to drum up an answer. The young man shrugs a little, then stammers out a shaky, "I thought I would find you guys, is all. I know, it was dumb. But I thought – "

"You were not thinking," Sayid cuts off Hurley, his voice suddenly crisp. For some reason, though, he doesn't press the issue. Sawyer wonders why, but doesn't ask. He's not talking to Sayid right now – not even to agree that Hurley was being an idiot. The Iraqi squints ahead into the darkness beyond them, as if estimating the distance. Why he's doing that is unclear, because they have no choice but to keep going anyway. "We will walk from here for the night, and a couple of us will go back and clear the path further, and get the truck in the morning."

_Great, another march. It's like the goddamn Macy's parade, all this walking._ Sawyer sighs to show his dislike of the idea, but what else can he do? They start walking, and he keeps his eyes on the others, doing his best not to drag his feet. He slowed down another walk through the jungle not too long ago, and as he stares at Ana-Lucia's ponytail, swinging before him, he has to wonder what she thinks about their effort to get him. Why the hell did she get asked along?

"Rambina," he calls out to her, and has to grin when she turns around. Apparently she answers to the nickname. "Got a question for you."

She shoots him a sharp look, as if she expects the worst, but falls back towards him. He's being outpaced again, and that irritates him, but she walks a little slower, sort of. "What?"

"Whaddaya think of this whole thing?" he asks her, studying her to see any twitch or flinch. He doesn't think she'll snow him, though. He isn't sure if he needs to continue, but figures he probably should explain a little. "Last I heard your voice, you were tellin' everyone that I should be left behind on the trail, and now you're out here just for me. I mean, I'm flattered, but it ain't really what I expected."

The young woman smirks at him, pointing out, "It wasn't what I expected, either. I guess I was brought along because I know the island, and I know them." She shrugs. "What do you want me to say, that I did this because I give a damn about what happens to you? I don't. Save your breath."

Sawyer stares at her, surprised, and even lets out a little laugh. "Thanks for the Hallmark card," he tells her, but isn't too angry about it. In her position, he'd probably respond the same way. He turns ahead in time to spot a branch he's about to smack into, and ducks a little bit to avoid it. "Hell of a thing, though, huh? I mean, that we got out of there. I thought they were gonna open up with the guns, let me tell you. Decided I had to take the risk, though. And I figured they probably wouldn't whack us anyway."

She looks up towards him, confused and interested by what he just said. "Why?" It's one word, and it's a simple question, but he doesn't feel like answering. He's not about to play his cards that easily, and he shakes his head, ignoring her. She snaps, "Fine, don't answer, then," and moves away from him, quickening her steps to distance herself.

He is alone again in the darkness, walking along with nothing to worry about except his own thoughts, and that's fine with him. The fresh air feels good, the salt in it stinging but keeping him awake, and he wants to stay awake now, because when morning comes, he'll have a lot of explaining to do, and he's not looking forward to that at all. He draws deep breaths of the air, and it makes him thirsty, but he doesn't have a water bottle and doesn't want to delay them just to get a drink. He'll have one when he gets back to the camp that's not home, that will never be home.

Through the leaves, he sees a glint, harsh and unnatural. Light – not daylight, but artificial light. He flinches at that, feels himself go numb all over. They're waiting for them. He knows that. They have gotten there beforehand, and they are going to wait until the fuselage survivors walk on in and attack them. Even as they get closer to the hatch, he can hear voices rise, and that works, though he doesn't want it to work. The people back here at the beach are trying to stop them, and he tenses, waits for gunshots that, once more, don't come. He can see the rest of the gang moving faster now, and despite his ankle, his arm, his head, he tries his best to keep up. There's no way he's getting left behind. Not now.

So he moves faster, too, jogs along although it doesn't feel that great, tries his best to keep up. Of course, the jungle is out to get him, and it seems like everything he could possibly trip on chooses just that moment to stick up in his path, because he stumbles over just about everything before they get to the light. Roots, branches, maybe even leaves, for all he knows. The light is coming from the hatch, streaming out the open door, and he stops short on seeing that, listens to the voices for a moment.

"Charlie, I've told you before, if you so much as touch that computer…"

The voice is not instantly familiar, really, and before Sawyer can figure out who is talking, Charlie's voice rises in response, British accent readily recognizable. "Well, where are they, then? What do you want us to do, just sit here and wait? Fantastic!" There is the sound of people moving around, and Sawyer pushes ahead of the rest of them who are standing there shocked, rolling his eyes at them in disgust even as Charlie talks again, moving towards the sound of the Englishman's voice: "I don't even know why we're debating this. We've got to break the computer."

He can hear people behind him too, at that. Locke's voice rises in protest, but Sawyer does not pay attention. Instead, he's focused on getting to the computer room. Let Locke keep on protesting; that's none of his business. What is his business is that someone's trying to do just what he wanted to do, and he can't have that happen. He won't let Charlie do this, because he planned on doing it himself. There's no way some joke of a British Invasion is going to get to do that, because there are rules to this, there are rights, and he's already claimed the right to smash the computer, even if nobody else knows it. _They will soon, though,_ he thinks. As he heads into the room, he sees Charlie's eyes widen in shock and glimpses the psychologist, Libby, draw herself up from the couch where she has been sitting, just as surprised as Charlie.

Sawyer motions the kid away from the computer, hardly expecting him to step aside, but prepared to deal with him if he's got to. "You're not touchin' the damn computer, Ringo. Back off. That thing's mine."

Charlie steps aside willingly, more stunned than thinking ahead at the moment. He gapes at Sawyer, making a little noise, as if he can't find words at the moment. That is a blessing, in a way, Sawyer realizes, but he doesn't voice his gratitude. He would not have gotten the opportunity, either, because Charlie suddenly finds his voice. "Sawyer – are you all right? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"We thought you were dead," Libby points out in concert with Charlie, and something about that strikes him as strange, but he doesn't question it. Not now. Not yet.

As he gets near the computer, Sawyer sees nothing but the prompt, and is surprised at that. He's not sure why, but somehow, he had expected to see something more than just a little cursor blinking on the screen. _They're having a joke at our expense,_ he realizes, and his anger rises, blinding out everything. He was feeling numb before, but now he feels positively dead beyond his hate for the computer, and that prompt that blinks at him, mocks him. He casts around for something with which to smash the computer, finds nothing, and decides, what the hell, he may as well just hit the stupid thing. He draws back his arm, aware it will hurt, but that doesn't make him reluctant at all.

He hears a clatter behind him, and knows it's the rest of them, having gotten over their hesitation and followed him downstairs. They stop short upon seeing what he's about to do, and he turns and looks towards them. They don't want him to wreck the computer, clearly, and the hell with them. He pulls his arm further back, to its furthest extent, and steels himself for the impact. He's punched out glass before, and it hurts, and he's probably running a risk of electrocution this way, but _something_ needs to be done, even at that risk.

The instant it stops moving, he sees a knife fly past. For the first instant, his brain does not register it beyond, _That was a knife. Christ, it was fast._ And then he looks up to see Locke's hand pulling back just as his own had, and he feels surprised that the knife wasn't thrown to hit him. Not relieved, though. He's too exhausted to be really shocked. He rocks back on his heels, staring at Locke, and drops his hand. Words come easily. They usually do. "We've got to get rid of this stuff, John. They're watching us. They know what we're doin'. We can't just sit around and let ourselves be watched, hear?'

"You're not destroying that computer, Sawyer – neither you or Charlie. We've got to keep pushing the button." Locke takes a step forward, and Sawyer turns to face him. "That is, unless you found out otherwise." Locke's eyes are very wide, curiosity and anger mixed on his face. "Did you?"

Sawyer shakes his head. "No way. I didn't find out nothin' like that." There's no way Locke will buy that, or any of the rest of them, but for at least a moment, he thinks that they're buying it, and he gives them a broad smile to seal the deal. "But I won't break the computer, and neither will Charlie. OK?"

He watches Locke take a step back, sees the doubt still on the bald man's face. Locke nods, though. "All right, then. See to it that you don't."

"I _won't_." Sawyer thinks, _At least not yet,_ but he decides not to share that. He steps back from the computer, raising his hands. "Everyone calm down." When he glances back towards Charlie and Libby, he sees them staring at him, still surprised. When Libby turns away, Sawyer gives Charlie a thumbs-up of encouragement. They need to talk about breaking the computer. If he can get Charlie to do it, and not need to do it himself, so much the better. Charlie will do it. Of that, he has no doubt. He turns back to see the rescuers still staring at him, and scoffs at the uneasiness on their faces. "It's just a damn computer. Relax."


	2. My Ride's Here

**II: My Ride's Here**

"A truck? And it runs? It has enough gasoline for that?" Sayid can feel Jack's stare on him, hear the dubiousness in the Bostonian's voice. "And you just drove it all the way back here. Nobody came after you. Nobody was watching you. You're sure of that?"

Sayid shakes his head. "We were being watched. I am quite sure of that. But they want us to have the truck, Jack, and I think we should use it. It is more than we have been given since we opened up the hatch, and that we took; it was not donated. We could use a vehicle, certainly."

"Sure we could," Jack says. "But you can't know for certain that it's safe." He takes a few steps closer to where Sayid has been walking, moving to catch up. Sayid winces at the noise, thinking, _Jack will never be an explorer._ The taller man has had some difficulty brush-clearing in the past, he's noticed, and even with the morning sun high overhead, he is not the stealthiest in the forest even now. The ax he carries swings from side to side with the intensity of his movements, and Sayid watches it bob as he turns, waiting for Jack to catch up. "And as long as we can't know for certain, then we shouldn't take the truck."

As he turns, Sayid feels the quickness of the movement. Though he wishes many things about his military life would go away, that is one benefit that he likes: The bearing of a soldier never goes away, and he can feel the loose tension in his movement. It energizes him, and he draws himself up a little straighter opposite Jack. He has done his best to agree with the man, to support his decisions, but now, on something that is important, he must disagree. "Nothing here is safe, Jack. We are taking the truck. If we do not, then we will deny ourselves a resource for the sake of pride and nothing else."

Jack stares at him for a moment, and then lets out a weary sigh, shaking his head. Sayid can hear the lacing of disgust in the noise, see from the way the doctor's arms are folded that he is displeased with the choice, but for once, he actually backs down. Sayid has to tighten his lips around the exultant chuckle that threatens to burst forth when Jack responds: "All right. We'll take the truck. But it's your responsibility, Sayid. I want nothing to do with it."

_That is, until you need it._ Sayid certainly does not say that. He simply smiles and responds as diplomatically as ever, "Very well." He makes sure the other man is looking at him, and makes his words as deliberate as possible. "Thank you, Jack."

"Sure, Sayid. Anytime." Jack's voice is breezy now, clearly quite pleased at the gratitude. He starts tromping through the forest again, with the gait of a fellow on his first time through the path. It is amazing. Despite Jack's relative ease with the path, knowing what to carry and what not, the man simply cannot move quietly. He hasn't an ounce of stealth in his body. His voice continues to carry quite loudly through the forest, as if they were back at the beach or the caves, even as Sayid can see branches and leaves crushed underfoot. "How are we going to get more gasoline for this truck, anyway? I mean, it seems to me like it's got limited use if we can't get anything for it."

"Build a hydrogen reactor out of stainless steel," Sayid replies. "Fit it with a pressure gauge, place it in the back of the truck with a plywood wall for security. Feed it water, and let it run off of hydrogen. Salt water works too, and I believe," he grins at Jack, feeling his tone go dry, "we likely have an unlimited supply of that."

The American's voice is skeptical. "And you know how to do that."

"Provided we have the materials, yes, I do. I'll scavenge around the hatch for steel, but I will bet you whatever you would like that we have some." Sayid pushes the last branch away and comes up on the truck. It has not been touched overnight. It sits there, looking in the exact same condition as it had before. It had not rained overnight; it is not even wet. It looks driveable even now, and he takes the keys out of his pocket, jumping into the truck. "I told you it was here, Jack," he can't resist calling out to the man, hearing his own amusement in his voice. "Do not doubt me."

Jack simply gapes at the truck, as if it's a miraculous occurrence. It might well be, Sayid expects, but he does not expect the island's repeatedly avowed skeptic to place credence in such matters. He can barely believe it himself, so Jack is even less likely to do so. Regardless, he watches as Jack takes a few steps towards the truck, disbelief evident on his face, and sees the other man's arm reach out to knock at the side of it.

"It's old. From the Seventies," is Jack's first comment. "Just like all that music in the hatch, and those books – they're all from the era. Have you looked at the publication dates of any?"

Sayid shakes his head. He'll look at the books later, provided he has the chance. He can scarcely do so sitting in a truck in a clearing of the jungle a good distance away from the camp. "It runs, though." He shoves the key home and guns up the motor, listening to it purr. Despite its age, the engine is good, mechanically trustworthy, from the sounds of it. He can fix it up to work off of hydrogen well enough, as long as he gets the time, opportunity, and solitude to do so. A quick glance at the fuel gauge shows that they have more than enough to get them home, and Sayid sets his gaze ahead, on a particularly offending tree.

It feels wrong, somehow, to cut down trees simply to get the truck through, like they are taking a liberty on the island that they need not take, but he nods Jack that way, soft-pedaling his doubt as best he can. "You are sure that you know how to handle an ax, Jack?" He almost suggests they go get Sawyer to replace Jack if need be, but manages to restrain himself. The question is enough to spur Jack to quick action, and Sayid sees determination in the taller man's chopping, a focus that he does not think is borne solely of his love for the task. _Why must he always prove himself the leader? What drives him to do so?_

He saves those questions for later, turns off the truck, and does his best to help out by clearing what brush he can. They work that way in silence for much of the day, given a task and doing their best to fulfill it, even if it is self-imposed. He is pleased that Jack does not strike up further conversation except when they take breaks for water and food. He is not sure he would know what to talk about with the doctor.

––

He has not expected to feel strange when he drives the truck down towards the hatch and then sends it towards the beach. Instead, he has expected to feel delighted when he pulls the truck down towards the sand, stops just short of the beach rather than sending the wheels to ground out in the soft surface. It is not an entirely pleasant feeling, though, and that makes him nervous. He cannot share the feeling with Jack, who sits in the passenger seat, because Jack would not stand even the remotest chance of understanding the reason behind it, so instead he focuses his attention on the mid-afternoon sun, staring woodenly at it as he hears the exultant cries and jubilant cheers around him.

_Liberator_. The word echoes in his head, a hollowness, a stiffness to it. It is a military word, a word that says more by avoiding terms, by glossing over them, than by confronting them. That is what they called the Americans when they were in Kuwait when he was younger. He has heard that is what they were calling them in Iraq, in the past few years, too. Though he has not been back in Iraq recently to know, they probably ride along the streets of Iraqi cities in tanks and sometimes trucks like these, handing out candy bars to the children and leaflets encouraging defection to the Iraqi citizens. If his vision is true, then there is such a miscalculation there that the Americans don't even see, such an assumption of power by being the only real vehicular force in the cities. On the other hand, perhaps it is not a miscalculation at all. Perhaps they _know_ this. Perhaps they trade on it.

He realizes then that Jack and he are trading on the same power. It is his truck, but Jack will want it from him. He does not know when, or why, but he is sure of it. He was able to maintain his hold on the radio, to keep others from hearing what he fears they will hear, and now he must keep hold of this truck, too. He cannot let it be put to bad purposes.

_I wish I had something to give them,_ Sayid thinks as he hears the excited chatter around them. _A truck is not enough. I must offer them some sort of hope. Mere driving ability without anywhere to go will do them no good._ He rests his hands on the steering wheel, tilts his head back on the headrest, and shuts his eyes. It may just be his nerves playing havoc with him, but he can swear for a moment he feels the desert wind cross his path, brush against his face. For a few moments, the voices around him exclaim their surprise and delight in Arabic.


	3. Night Time in the Switching Yard

**III: Night Time in the Switching Yard**

"When he rehearses, an actor retraces his steps to remember where he stands onstage." Sawyer remembers that from the flaky drama teacher in junior high, when he was forced to be in some stupid play by a required drama class. _Brigadoon_. Hated the damn thing, hated being forced to be in it and to wear stupid costumes when really, all he wanted to do with that class period was to go outside and filch smokes off the high school kids. They didn't have to be in the stupid play anymore, damn ninth-graders.

To make matters worse, the drama teacher knew he hated it, had given him a big part, and it wasn't even an interesting part, just some New Yorker come to some stupid Scottish town. Having to put on a Yankee accent irritated him, for some nebulous reason he never could quite put his finger on. It wasn't like he was Jeff Davis's great-great-great grandkid or something like that, but it was just a bad play to choose for a bunch of Southern kids.

In any case, he retraces his own steps through the hatch, under the eye of a suspicious John Locke, who hovers over the computer like a mother hen. That's annoying. Insulting, really. He'd told the guy that he wasn't going to touch his damn computer, and all Locke can do is fret over it. He almost lost fingers thanks to Locke, and he's not about to do anything to the computer when the guy's there.

To make matters worse, Michael keeps on casting the computer worried looks, too. The two of them, Michael and Locke, have been eyeing him ever since he set foot in the hatch, and the more he's watched, the more irritated by it he gets.

"I'm not gonna touch your damn computer. Jeez." It feels like the thousandth time he has said it. It's easily the fifteenth or sixteenth. He scrapes a hand through his hair and glares at them, but they don't back down or step away from the computer. That's all right, though. He'll get at it when they're not watching. It would be impossible for them to watch all the time, so all he needs to do is wait for the time to strike at it. He can be patient if he has to.

Besides, the hatch is more rewarding than just staring at that stupid computer. There's a great, bright clarity that comes from knowing that he had hallucinated none of it. It amazes him for a few moments, awe and dread mixing in him like some sort of emotional soup, turning his limbs to jelly. This place is no good for him to feel smooth, by any means, and he fights that as best he can, lets the smart aleck remark come to his lips.

"You guys really ought to get outside for once. The sun's shining; it's a beautiful day – just like every other damn day here on Atlantis." Sawyer lets his tone be as patronizing as it possibly can be, even sends them a little wave to cast them on their way. "Run along and play, kids."

That doesn't entertain the other men; he sees them both straighten, hears muttered condemnation of his words, but ignores it. He's got bigger worries than them, certainly. And they seem to be willing to leave him alone as long as he leaves their computer alone. He ignores them, then, and wanders back into the living quarters of the hatch.

If it was no dream, then there have to be things around here that he recognizes. There are; Sawyer chuckles at the lava lamp, and how out of place the ping-pong table looks. There in the sleeping quarters that he can't really call a bedroom is the pole lamp that all but attacked him on his way out. He did that… before… after… he tries to think, dropping down in a chair. He did that after _one_, and _one_ was when he flipped off the cameras. Something in this place had to draw his attention that way. Something had to make him think they were here. But what?

The realization is grim, too: They're watching him even now. They're watching Michael and Locke as well. He flips the nothingness off again, because that makes him feel better, and looks around for anything that looks like a camera. No tripods. No visible lenses. No, they'll be more subtle than that, he knows, but how is he supposed to find it anyway? He's just a dumb sonofabitch who was afraid to touch the computer, last time he was here. He wants nothing more than to get his hands on that hunk of junk now, but he can't do it with the guard party it seems to have built up.

He screwed that up, plenty. He shouldn't have let on so soon. They would have maybe been willing to let him be down here by himself. He would have had plenty of access to the computer, time and inclination and smarts to mess with the bastards' heads.

He can still do that, though, can't he? He just needs to think of another route besides the computer. His headache is starting to lessen, and he leans back in the chair, shutting his eyes, trying to think. The past few days have sucked, but there has to be something he can take out of them, something he can apply. Some way that he can get back at them from here. He has to be able to screw them over, pull a fast one on them. Then he'll figure out just what the hell is going on, but he wants revenge first. First on them, then on Sayid. Revenge, in this dream world. He is buying into it, then. More than he wants to admit.

He'd been the guy that had wanted to stay in the make-believe town, too. Tommy Something-Or-Other. He'd wanted to stay there, not go back to society, fall in love with the girl and spend forever in Bizarro World, not return to reality. There's a parallel there, too, and Tommy Something-Or-Other _did_ wind up spending forever there. Maybe he'll spend forever here. Much as he hates the place, it wouldn't bother him too badly. One place is as bad as the next. If he has to spend the rest of his life outrunning, outthinking, outgunning a group of crazies, this island's just as good a place to do it as the Bible Belt.

He opens his eyes, props himself up, studies the room like it's a mark and he's going to con it, looking for subtle shifts, for whatever's different, whatever he can peg and isolate from everything else that changes. The chatter of Michael and Locke in the next room comes to him, and he scowls at it, because that makes it that much harder to listen for minute details, but he's got to do it. He has nothing to lose. "All right, you bastards," he murmurs, hearing in it the same tone that he'd shouted out a few days ago, hoping he doesn't bring down a similar fate on the guys in the next room thanks to some sort of karmic retribution.

Nothing changes. At all. It's frustrating, but he's willing to wait. They want to watch his crew, well, he can watch them just as well, and he makes himself go still, staring at the rest of the room around him from his gunfighter's position in the chair. He stares at the room for a long moment, not daring to breathe, let alone take a look out that window into the blackness of night. He can hear shouts and cries, pleased sounds, from outside, and it strikes him as strange that there would be that many people on the beach at night.

_Wait. What the hell?_

He's got it. He's abso-damn-lutely got it. He feels a rush of delight at that, lets it course through him for a moment, surging through his veins like yet another hit of drugs. This is better, though, because this stuff, it _stays_ with you, and he's noticed it, and he knows nobody else has, because they haven't said anything about it, and they would have said, had they noticed. People talk around him even when they don't mean to, let things slip they shouldn't have let slip, but they haven't let this slip, so they don't know. He lets his gaze focus on the stars, feels his eyes widen a bit, tries his level best to keep the exultation out of his voice. Sure, he'd love to brag about it, but not now. Not yet. Not while he's got the trump card in his hands and right before his very eyes.

"Hey, guys," he calls over to Michael and Locke. "Got a question for you."

"You aren't getting on the computer, man." Michael's voice is in between a warning and tiredness. He doesn't want to have to deal with Sawyer right now, clearly.

_He won't have to, either. He should be glad for that._ Sawyer doesn't move his gaze from the blackness of the window. Doesn't even blink, he doesn't think. He sits there, still staring, unable to move his gaze from the spot. Hell, it's like some sort of breakthrough, really. "I ain't worried about your damn computer, Mikey. Question's this: What the hell time is it?"

"Uh." The question has given Michael pause, from the sounds of it. There's a bit of shuffling around, for a few seconds, and then Michael calls back, "About three in the afternoon, I think, Sawyer. Why?"

He wants to smash the window first. He wants to break that, because behind that must be wires that lead to the cameras. Whatever that stuff is, it's not real. It's a fake. They want to fake whomever's down here into thinking it's night, because – because why? What do they get out of this that lets them make people 'better,' as he was told a day or two ago? Why mess up someone in a rat hole like this? Especially someone who's already plenty nuts? Or were they meant to find this, meant to be put down here, meant to know what the hell was down here anyway? Meant to figure this out, too, and the first person to do so wins a prize, but he's pretty damn sure that the prize isn't a free trip off Fantasy Island.

"No reason, Mike. Thanks."

"Yeah, sure." Michael's voice is uncertain, like he has another question to ask Sawyer.

It goes unasked, though, and Sawyer is glad for that. He isn't sure that he'd know what to say to Michael if he had to. He just keeps staring at that window, and at length he cracks his neck and his knuckles, gets up, moves over to the window that he knows now isn't a window, because there's no way it could be that dark at three in the afternoon. He leans in close, so they've got a good shot of him if they have a camera behind the blackness, and gives them his best shit-eating grin. "Gotcha."

And, Christ, if the chorus from that stupid play doesn't start singing jubilantly at that very moment, or maybe it's the noise from the crowd outside. Either way, it doesn't sound bad at all.


	4. Gridlock

**IV: Gridlock**

The sky is always cloudless before it rains, Sayid remembers. That is unnatural, and it bothers him each time the rains come. Every time, he is reminded of the unreality of the place, the strange weather a constant admonishment that he is at least half a step outside the boundaries of reality, and that whatever force put them in this all but unreal place also has the ability to turn the weather strange. They continue to strive against it, but each drop of rainwater does more damage to their efforts than any fusillade of bullets could hope to do.

After the afternoon's storm wears off and the winds stop whipping, settling to nothing whatsoever again like they always do, he goes out to check on the truck and make sure that it has not rusted. Nobody has remembered to throw a tarp over it, of course, which means that he worries that it has rusted beneath the torrential downpour of water. Logically, he knows it won't have rusted from a single storm, but that still fails to stave off the concerns. They need this truck. They cannot afford to let it go to waste. Must he take personal care of it as he does the alarms?

The very least he can do is to find a tarp to throw over it. There are tarps everywhere. The truck should have one, and he resolves to go in search of it at the earliest possible opportunity. First, though, he needs to check the engine of the truck. He's known the basics about it from merely driving it: Thirteen-speed manual transmission, five-ton four-wheel-drive, diesel engine, a Mack truck from the logo, and _RW_ from the model information emblazoned on its side.

He opens the hood, propping it up, and takes a look inside, the metals glinting in the late afternoon sun. If they want to get anywhere, he'll have to take the engine out. That will take some time. Some doing. Plenty of materials. He had told Jack it would be easy to get done, but what else could he have told the man? "We'll need plenty of effort to finish the job, as well as more spare parts lying around the hatch than you probably want to give me?" Jack would have never agreed to get the truck out of the jungle then.

He will not be able to spend much time on it tonight, anyway. As wet and muddy as the ground is and as unreliable as the storms are, he's liable to get rained on again, and he wants to locate that spare tarp first. He shuts the hood of the truck, having filed away a few crucial details about it for the job to come. He'll need to eke out a lot of resources to fix it, and he'll need to do it while Jack's not looking, so as to avoid the good doctor's fit of rage should he find out he's being swindled of things he likely wouldn't need anyway, but would nonetheless be reluctant to give.

That's certainly a conflict which Sayid has no wish to precipitate.

" 'S a hell of a find, Mohammed."

_Oh, no,_ Sayid thinks. _The jahsh has decided I will make for good conversation. I must be cursed._ He looks away from the truck and has to stare directly into the sun to spot Sawyer approaching from the west. Of all the people he wanted to discuss his plans with, the Southerner is certainly the last person on the list. Second-to-last, at any rate. He must be careful not to let on that he plans to appropriate anything from the hatch.

"Mack truck. Old, too. Looks sturdy. Probably your daddy drove one against the Ayatollah." There is something distinctly weird about Sawyer at the moment; the blond looks almost gleeful. The sight of it is not something that allays Sayid's worries. At least Sawyer seems in a mood to talk, for whatever reason. "Your dad fight in that thing, back in the Eighties?"

Sayid keeps his words short, his voice clipped. "My father did not. He was too old by that point. He fought earlier, under ad-Da'ud." Every time he says that to someone who knows the history, he must add the corollary, 'Although he did not support ad-Da'ud against the Ba'athists, as everyone knows.' But he does not mention this now. Nobody on this island would know or understand. It is enough that they know that his father was a war hero. Anything more would be pointless.

"He in the Republican Guard, like you?"

Sayid nods only slightly. _Why such curiosity?_ It warns him to be on alert, and he turns back towards the truck, attempting to provide a deliberate signal that he is no longer interested in conversation. He scarcely expects it to work. Sawyer is oblivious to such things when he wants to be. "Ad-Da'ud led the Guard in the late Sixties," he adds, conclusion to his words along with a sense of offhanded explanation.

His tactic does not work. Sawyer nods, that same strange look still on his face. It's something beyond the normal arrogance that Sayid has come to expect, something important and noticeably different, but he can't quite put a label on it. Whatever it is, it's made the con man all too congenial. "Your daddy ever kill anyone?" The words come out in short bursts, like they require some effort to say now.

"I am sure that he did. Where is this inquiry leading us?" Sayid can hear the impatience in his own voice, and he faces Sawyer again. "You need no history of the Iraqi military, Sawyer. You were angry at me before. Now, you want to chat with me. What has happened to change that? Did you find something here?"

The question causes a flinch from Sawyer, the giveaway all too obvious. Sayid had not expected it to be that noticeable. He gives the other man a questioning look, but does not press the issue. If Sawyer is feeling talkative, there is no need to say anything that would make him suspicious again.

"I didn't find a damn thing," Sawyer lies, and pretty transparently for once. "I was just wonderin' if you were the only killer in your family." His face shifts, and the smile that he gives Sayid is unpleasant – broad, certainly, and on anyone else's face, with a little more laxness to the grin, it might even be likeable. There is too much tension to it for the expression to look at all calming, though, and Sayid does not like the look of it one bit. "You gonna drive us around in the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine? You won't get a lot of mileage out of it."

"I know that. That is why I am retooling the engine." Sayid thinks, _He was trying to get me to react, with the remark about killers. I will not react. His words do not deserve a reaction._

"Well, hell, not only are you a hired damn killer and radio man, you're a goddamn mechanic, too. Lucky you. You know, then, that this thing'll take a hell of a lot of work to fix up. Tools which you ain't got. I can tell you that right now, Edison." Sawyer notes something then on Sayid's face, and his grin tightens further. "That is, unless you were plannin' to steal stuff to fix it."

Sayid ignores the other man's needling. Let him continue thinking what he wants, even if it is right. "I was going to steal nothing." He decides to share at least a little of his plan with Sawyer. The less curious the other man is, the less likely he is to ask dozens of questions. "I was going to acquire some instruments and mechanical necessities from the hatch." He pauses, considering the situation. He needs to get the information without Jack noticing. Sawyer does not like Jack. That presents a good opportunity, and if he wants to learn what Sawyer knows, he must first earn his trust. He knows from experience the opposite approach does not work. He makes his request simple, gives Sawyer a choice rather than asking him outright. "Do you want to help?"

A scoffing sound that might have been laughter, if it were accompanied by anything remotely kind. Sawyer stares for a long moment, shaking his head as if his instinctive response is to say no to the offer. "You're askin' me to filch stuff from Jack for your truck, Sayid?" Since Sawyer uses his actual name, Sayid knows at that point the Southerner's not as dead-set against the idea as it had initially seemed. "If Jack finds out about it, this is on you, got it? I ain't gonna be the scapegoat if it isn't my idea. But I'll help. For now. I want out, I'm out. Got it?"

"Understood," Sayid confirms. "They will not let you in the hatch alone, though. You know that. In fact, I probably should not ask you, considering that."

Sawyer's grin turns cagey, a certain slyness in it. Sayid knows he should worry about that, but he doesn't. The fact that Sawyer can probably get into the hatch alone pleases him. They just might stand a chance of acquiring material for the truck without Jack finding out until it is too late. Who better to ask to con things out of people than a confidence artist? Sawyer seems convinced of his own ability, too: "That's what you think. I can get into the hatch anytime I want. But I want something in return, Mohammed." _Back to those wonderful nicknames._ "You and I are gonna have a talk sometime, got that? And you're gonna be straight with me about what happened."

The determination in Sawyer's voice is obvious, but it confuses Sayid. _Does he think I had something to do with what happened to him on the island? Then why would he inquire about my father's military service?_ The whole thing makes no sense in its illogic, not even the particular, oddly judicious type of illogic that he has come to attribute to Sawyer. Sayid shrugs and responds, "I am honest, Sawyer. Whatever happened, I will tell you what I know of it."

That causes a very sharp reaction in Sawyer. Sayid observes it as he might the result of a punch, because it has much the same result – a sharp recoil by the person struck, flinching away and crumpling a little, before the rebound begins and the assailed individual, having rocked back on his heels to the furthest extent, propels himself forward and unknowingly opens himself up to be struck again. He had seen much the same reaction in people he had beaten during the war, men who lacked the military training and common sense to avoid bringing further hurt upon themselves. He knows Sawyer has no military training, but he had always figured the man had been in enough fights to know how to protect himself if he needed. What had he said just then to shatter that defense?

He does not expect Sawyer to tell him, and Sawyer certainly isn't about to do so. From the way Sawyer's face shifts into a smirk, something less than humored, he can almost see proverbial ranks being closed against him. "You know all about it, Jafar. Don't lie. You're a bad liar – 'specially about murder."

_That, at least, is the truth. I am not a born liar._ Sayid watches as Sawyer stalks off, apparently choosing to expend his energy in at least a slightly more constructive manner than taking it out on the truck, and shakes his head bemusedly. Twilight has settled, and already a few people have started campfires on the beach. Let them be plagued by Sawyer's presence. He need only deal with the man to get what he needs from the hatch, and to have that conversation Sawyer wants to have, the subject of which Sayid cannot yet place.

_Especially about murder,_ he thinks as he takes a few more steps along the truck, pacing its length. _Sawyer knows I murdered someone. He thinks I murdered someone he knows. There is only that journalist, though, and even if Sawyer knew the fellow, he did not seem to like him, from what little information I got from our previous conversation._ The puzzle presented him has a solution, he knows, and he will find it.

He has too many things to solve, now, and so perhaps it is fitting that Sawyer just called the truck the 'Mystery Machine.' _Perhaps it is,_ Sayid thinks, unable to restrain a chuckle at the thought. There is the mystery of just what Sawyer thinks he knows, the mystery of why Hurley thought he could go after them in the jungle, the mystery of John Locke's connection to the facility at which they found Sawyer, the mystery of Kate's vision of the horse, the mystery of the radio contact, and of the tail passengers' friend Goodwin, whom Ana-Lucia claims to have seen in or near the burning hatch. He is sure all these things are connected. They must be. The only thing he can do is figure them out as best he can. That is to say nothing, of course, of the mystery of the island itself, of Danielle Rousseau and the Others and the place he's just seen. He is sure he has the clues for all of these. He just needs to put them together in a way that makes coherent sense.

He must leave the truck there, however. He abandons it reluctantly, knowing people will likely come over and fool with it, or try to drive it. He has to see if he can get people to stay away from it, but his shift at the hatch beckons, and he would not begrudge the effort for his own possession, as nice as it admittedly is. He will find a tarp for it tomorrow, too. The rain came already, and he hopes it will not return tonight.

He finds Hurley in the hatch. Apparently the young man wants nothing better than to be relieved of shift duty, and Sayid is happy to relieve him of that. "Long day?" he asks the large youth, who is slumped behind the chair staring dully at the computer.

Hurley leans forward to see who's talking to him, the chair creaking under his weight. He lets out a laugh which is too infectious to be sarcastic, but too sarcastic to be really amused by the question that has been posed. "Dude, you don't know the half of it."

Sayid is struck by those words. He cannot say why, but he knows that they resonate with him. _You really _don't_ know the half of it,_ he tells himself, but manages to force a smile out in Hurley's direction. It is fake, and he dislikes it. "You can relax now, though. I am here until midnight. So you can go outside and," he thinks quickly, "hang out."

That brings a real smile to Hurley's face as he rises from the computer, moves further towards the exit. "Hang out. Right. That's all I do when I'm not pushing the button. I'll go do it again, though. Listen, man, you… uh, you gonna be all right in here by yourself?"

Sayid has already settled behind the computer by the time the question concludes, and he looks up over it at Hurley. "Of course, Hurley. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because it sucks down here, man. It's boring. There's nothing but these weird books and records."

"I am sure you could find something entertaining if you just looked." Sayid checks the computer screen quickly, and feels a mixture of relief and disappointment at the absence of words. Apparently nobody wants to speak to him over the computer today, at least not while Hurley is around. "However, Hurley, hold on a moment. I want to make sure you are free to talk with me tomorrow."

That does more than make Hurley really smile. The young man laughs aloud now, shaking his head. "Free of what? Gathering coconuts? Wandering around and trying to strike up conversations with people? Doing the laundry? Trust me, I'm as free of that as I can be, and thanks."

His own voice is an order, but it is as pleasant of one as he can make it. He has no wish to scare Hurley into refusing to talk to him. "We will talk tomorrow, then, Hurley, regarding what you were doing out there in the jungle. Find me when it is convenient." As Hurley's footsteps recede, Sayid settles further behind the computer and stares at it for a few more moments, until he hears the footsteps die completely. There is no one else in the hatch. He is sure of that. There is no one on the other end of the line at the computer, either, and a few more minutes of nothingness confirm that.

He watches to make sure, checks the timer to ensure that he has a few hours. Then he starts to search for a screwdriver. He will dismantle the tower and see if there is a wireless internet connection therein, because he strongly suspects there is. He moves around the room, knowing it looks suspicious but scarcely caring. They should have expected that the computer would be investigated long before now.


	5. Dirty Life and Times

**V: Dirty Life and Times**

She had said she would meet him here, and it was all he could do not to drive back to the Pollo Tropical and check in there to see if she was done with her shift. She got out just before the dinnertime crowd came. Maybe she'd gotten held up there, had been talked into doing some extra work. She wouldn't have done that, though. She would have come for him.

That's what he'd thought, anyway. But as the minutes ticked by and he kept on repeatedly staring at his Swatch, he grew more and more certain that she wouldn't come. It figured, really. He hadn't seen her for a few years and then she would just ditch him like that.

Sawyer paced the car's length, spun on a heel, and walked in the opposite direction. He'd done that a few times already, but his nerves were eating him up. Christ, the whole thing felt goofy. She was just some dumb girl that he had known for a day back at home, and it was just a strange coincidence that she would be here. The area had a lot of people, and _he_ knew a lot of people. It made sense, he told himself, and for a minute or two, he believed it. Jeannie wasn't anyone important. Not really. So why was he so anxious about meeting her?

He hadn't seen anyone drive up, so when he heard her voice nearby, he had to press his lips together to avoid making a surprised noise. "Hey, Jimmy," she said, walking towards him. She had managed to switch from her Pollo Tropical uniform into a pair of shortalls, and had pulled her hair back with a headband. She wanted to look good for him. He could tell. Her hands were dug into her pockets, and she grinned broadly as she moved towards him. "You didn't think I'd come, did you?"

He laughed a little at that, closed his mouth into a smirk, and shook his head shortly. "Nah. I was thinkin' you wouldn't." He toyed with the idea of correcting the nickname – he had always hated 'Jimmy' – but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. He didn't mind when she called him it, anyway. Whatever she wanted to call him was fine. "Good to see you did, though. I thought maybe, at the restaurant – I thought you'd hit me, right in front of them two losers."

"Oh, no! Never. I was just surprised. But I wasn't gonna hit you. I mean, that was a long time ago." She blinked and shook her head rapidly. To Sawyer, the movement seemed almost too quick. There was something weird about it. It seemed almost like she'd anticipated the question, or like someone had told her it was coming. "Don't worry about it. Clean slate, hear?"

Sawyer wanted to ask about it. He wanted to figure out why he thought that, because his instincts told him it was wrong, and he trusted his instincts. But of course he didn't say it. He smiled at her and nodded, feeling like a total idiot as his head bobbed. She was every bit as gorgeous as she had been back in '87. "You should've hit me, though." Her face went all confused, and he tried to explain. "I mean, I would have deserved it," he concluded lamely, feeling even dumber for even bringing it up. He felt his fingers tighten and curl into his palms, and he tried to relax, to let the fake demeanor slide over his face and click into place. "Listen, Jeannie, it ain't like you've got much of a choice between me and that manager at the Polo."

"_Pollo._"

"Whatever. You're wastin' time." It was a cheesy line and he knew it, but he knew he could sell it, too. He took a few steps towards her, feeling his hands and shoulders loosen, his walk turning into a swagger. "I ain't got all day to talk or do anything else."

He had been taller than Jeannie a few years back, too, but he had felt small compared to her then, his youth and relative inexperience compared to a college coed making him feel like a shrimp. There was less difference between them now that he was a few years older, and when he reached out for her to draw her close, he was aware that he made her move, that he was in control. He was not too sure what to think of that, but when she reached for his head, burying her hands in his hair, pressing her lips to his, he was not too sure that thinking really mattered, anyway.

She broke the kiss first, pulling away. He expected her to look into his eyes, and was surprised to see that she was looking past him. Her hands tightened where they held him, keeping him there. He did not want to break away, but he was aware that, if he wanted to, he'd have to put up at least a bit of resistance against her. Her eyes were large, brows raised, her lips pursed into an involuntary pout. "Stay with me, Jimmy. Stay here. You don't need to go anywhere. This is a nice place, and my job – I mean, it isn't much, but it's all right. I'm the manager there." Her fingers traced patterns on his neck as she talked, her voice smooth.

_I could take lessons from her,_ he thought. He wanted to agree to what she offered. He wanted to stay here. But he couldn't stay here. Not with those bastards knowing whom he was and what he did. They had not killed him, but they held his life in their hands, he realized with an icy shock, the chill coursing through his veins, making him momentarily sick from the contrast with the Florida heat. He couldn't involve her in that.

"Jeannie, I – " he began. Her fingertips pressed into his neck, and he flinched a bit, expecting fingernails to follow. "I can't do that to you."

"I'm asking you to do that," she murmured, kissing him again. "I want you to stay here. You wouldn't come to college with me. You owe me."

He shook his head, feeling déjà vu. "No. See, that's the thing, Jeannie. I owe other people besides you, and, see, I was supposed to get some money from those people I was with, and…. look," he tried with sudden desperation, "I didn't make out too good since you last knew me. No college. No chance. I'm a scam artist, all right?"

"I don't care." Her hands slipped from his neck, and she stared at him for a long moment before adding solemnly, "And neither do you. Not about me, not about anything."

Sawyer wanted to say no to that. He wanted to tell her that he did care about her, about whatever she cared about, but he couldn't find the words. He was always so good with words, but now anything he could say other than simple agreement to that sounded like a lie. He watched her, swallowed, felt his face tighten to hold back something. What? He didn't know, but whatever it was, he knew it wouldn't feel too good coming out.

"Listen, I'll stay with you for a while, anyway. These guys – screw 'em. You want me to stay, I'll stay. Happy?"

Her face bloomed bright with a smile. He knew he had made the right decision. It might have been the wrong one for his own safety, but it was the right one overall. She nodded happily, and reached out her hands for him. He put his hands atop hers, and smiled. "I got to find a place to stay, then. These guys – they know where my hotel is."

"You can stay with me."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

She seemed too certain about it. He wondered about that. How did she know that it would be all right for him to stay with her? How could she make that decision as firmly as she did? He stared at her for a long moment, but found no explanation in her eyes, only pure joy at him sticking around for a while. He couldn't ruin things for her. Not now. Not yet. The time would come when he would have to take off, but not for a little while yet. If this was what would make her happy, he would do it. She was right. He owed her that much, at least.

He looked past her towards the beaches beyond. There were so many little islands just past them that he was a bit disoriented by them, unsure whether he faced a field full of lakes, or a pool full of islets. Looking back at her didn't help, because she made his head spin, too. She had that effect on him. Intoxicating. Christ.

She'd never understand what he did, though. Sawyer knew that much. She shouldn't get involved in this thing – whatever it turned out to be – with the businessman and his girlfriend. He'd have to keep the two separate for at least the next few weeks, until he left Everglades City, and he hoped that he'd have the smarts to do that. It could mean her life if he wasn't smart about it, so he'd have to be. He had nearly avoided a fight with the two of them at the restaurant, and if they found out where Jeannie lived and came looking for him there, that would mean trouble for her, too. He'd have to be good at separating those halves of himself, keeping the half that felt as far away as possible from the half that did all those bad things.

He knew he could do that. He had spent the last year practicing for just this moment. Suddenly aware he had been gaping at her, catching the knowing twist to her grin, he looked away from her, shaking his head, uneasy. "I'll be by your place tomorrow. You want a ride back there?"

He was afraid she'd say that she would hitchhike again. She hadn't accepted a ride from him a few years ago, and he had lost her then. Now that he had her, he wanted to hold onto her, wanted to do whatever he could to keep her near for at least a little while. He was holding his breath, but he wasn't aware of it for a few moments. Then her mouth moved, and he could exhale again.

"Sure, Jimmy," she said.

He smiled. The expression was tight, tense, but it felt real, and he felt complete. He could ignore the way that she continued to know just what he was thinking about, because that didn't matter. Not really – not yet. He could worry about that some other time. For now, he had some packing to do back at the hotel, and he knew that he had to do it fast.


	6. They Moved the Moon

**VI: They Moved the Moon**

There is a folk tradition in Iraq which Sayid is sure comes from the Sunnis. A _hadith_, perhaps, something in which the Shi'a disbelieve. _Good visions come from God, and bad ones from the devil._ If you encounter a bad vision, Sayid remembers, you should spit on your left side three times and seek refuge with God from it. He does not believe it is anything more than superstition, but if he did not see it as rude, he would certainly be ready to spit upon the computer in case he comes across anything he dislikes, or in case when he is taking apart the computer seems like a fine time for his online conversation to begin anew. His concern about the computer fuels his actions, brings a clarity that he recognizes as wartime adrenaline. Is it possible to battle against a hatch, against a computer? If it is, he is certainly doing that.

The screwdriver is easy enough to locate. It is the computer that poses a problem. It is not a modern computer, made to be accessible to the user. It is very old, encased in a hard plastic a half-centimeter thick, and is a shell, constructed in the day when people who were not computer engineers were not expected to know how the technology worked and, once made, computers were rarely if ever opened up again.

He wonders if that is why it was used. _The fellow who typed in the numbers was expected to do nothing else._ He kneels down in front of the table, facing the back of the computer, and stares at a parallel port for a printer cable connection, a serial port for an external modem that he does not see – all but the keyboard port are empty. The computer by all appearances is independent of any other technology. He pulls out the screws and puts his hands on the case carefully.

He would ordinarily not be worried about stressing it, but he cannot afford a mishap. He does his best to will the computer not to break, steeling himself as he moves to slide the back of the case off the combined tower and monitor. The control he has over his body makes his knees press down into the floor, and he realizes that he is not spitting on the computer. He is almost praying for it to cooperate, in such a stance.

Evening prayer approaches, and he has not yet washed, nor has he prayed in a long time. The imams at school would not have been happy with such an apostasy. He can hear their voices now: _"Ihtaris: al-Jarrah ilhadun wa zindiqun."_ A heretic and an atheist, they would say, and although he is uncertain about either, he cannot fault them. It is a more than decent guess, given his conduct on the island. It has been two months, and no recitation of the _shahadah_ in Danielle's trap will suffice for such a lapse. He is unsure about his faith, but maybe it would be comforting to pray. Something from his past, something to which he can relate, have a hold in reality, get something from his background to have on the island.

He would intend to face Mecca, but as he told John Locke once several weeks ago, he is not even sure which direction is which on the island anymore, and recent events have confirmed that uncertainty as a valid one. He must wash, though. He can do that, at least, and not to do it while he has the opportunity would be unforgivable. He checks the counter quickly, and has more than an hour left until the counter runs down again. He has known people to sleep on their shift, so he supposes a few minutes' ducking into the shower would not cause trouble. He moves down the hallway towards the shower, his hands going to the collar of his tank top to yank it off. He wants to waste as little time as necessary, because the computer still beckons.

––

In the daytime, it was possible to see anything that was coming towards you, but at night, you had to wait for the enemy to give himself away with a burst of gunfire if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, as Sayid had remembered some of his friends being, the enemy would have thermal sights and an Abrams tank with kinetic energy rounds. He had been lucky to avoid that, but the cost had been great. For him, there had been no burning oil fields in the February night, no convoys bombed by the Americans along the Highway of Death that led from Kuwait to Basra, but there had been other things, worse things, darker works in which he still participated.

By contrast, these nightly patrols were easy to do. It was a simple matter of getting in a military vehicle along with another Guardsman and driving around the camp perimeter to ensure no crazy fools had decided tonight, just outside the Shi'ite temples in Samarra, would be a fine time to martyr themselves.

It was a very real chance, he knew. They were assumed to be Sunnis, and they were on hostile ideological territory. He was ready to shoot if he had to, but he hoped he would not have to. He had enough blood on his hands already, and it had been a while since a man had died at his hands. Perhaps even a year now. He wanted to abstain from killing as long as he could, and he hoped that God saw fit to keep him from committing any more murders.

"Sayid," someone said, and he looked up that way, breaking free of his thoughts. _Farouk still talks far too much,_ he thought, and he lifted his brows to show the younger man that he was listening. "We are stopping at the temple of the Shi'a mahdi?"

"For tonight, yes." Sayid looked past the gold roof-work closer to them, towards the smaller, tile-inlaid mosque that bore the body of the man the Shi'ites believed to be the mahdi, the deliverer of the world. Sayid was not sure if he was Sunni, but he knew he did not believe that.

––

_I am making _ghusl_ to make myself free of impurities,_ he thinks, though he does not say it. It is supposed to be unspoken, a silent intention. He shuts his eyes and thrusts both hands into the water, letting the water pound down onto them, feeling his fingers come alive with the wet rush upon them. He washes himself quickly, keeping the water low, ensuring that he can hear the counter if it starts beeping. The pattern is familiar, especially when he starts ablution.

"_Bismillah,_" he murmurs and washes both hands. Three times, each in a row. He swallows some of the water and spits it out, three times, breathes some of the water and exhales it through his hands, and then his face, his arms three times, and his hair once. He washes his ears and then his ankles, and then lets water run over his head, three times, and each shoulder, three times. The water pressure jumps, then, and he almost stops, but he wills himself against it, continuing to offer up utterances that he remembers from his schooldays in Tikrit, before he gave all this up save for appearances.

He must not stop in the middle of preparing for prayer. That would defeat the whole purpose of this, and he will not be dissuaded this easily. He steps into the water, letting it drench him, mat his hair down and let it hang heavy around his shoulders, and then lifts his feet to wash them too. The process brings with it a comfortable familiarity. He used to do this when he was in Iraq. He will have to do it again, here on the island, at some point.

He shuts the water off and steps out of the shower, starting to dress in clean clothes that he has grabbed from the laundry. There has been no beeping from the counter, no sound of footfalls in the hallway, so he is confident that he has managed to avoid detection. He slips into his shoes and moves back towards the computer room. _How will I know where Mecca is?_ He looks into the next room, sees the room still glinting with light, and thinks, _Twilight must come late here._

He can see which way the shadows lie outside, extending towards the east, and if they took off from Australia, he can only assume that in a typical map of the word, they are east of Mecca. He stands in the direction of the sunlight, then, facing west-northwest, in the middle of the computer room. He will have no mat, but he does not mind the possibility of slight discomfort. It will be good. He has woken up from the ablutions, refreshed himself, so a little temporary uncomfortable kneeling will not be much trouble. He lifts his hands, folding them on his chest for a moment, then placing them upon his knees, and then prostrates himself on the ground twice before sitting up. "Peace be upon you and the mercy of God," he remarks in Arabic, but it is not the first thing he has said throughout: _Takbir_, _tahmid_, _tahlil_, and _tasbih_ are all recited as well, before the final words of peace.

––

The Shi'ites said that their _mahdi_ was still alive, and had only been hidden away by God, and if that was true, then it would have to be accepted solely on belief, because otherwise certainly no man could live so long. Sayid readily admitted he did not have enough faith to believe that.

"They say that one day he will come back, you know," Farouk told him. Sayid looked back towards the young man, and must have given him a look that signified a lack of understanding, because Farouk smiled and explained, "The _mahdi_, Sayid. They say that he will restore the world to Islam during the last days, before Isa comes to join him."

Sayid shook his head. "That is the Sunni version," he corrected Farouk levelly, wondering how poorly religion must be taught now, given Farouk's lack of understanding. "The Shi'ite version does not include the Christian messiah. It says instead that young men – like you, perhaps – will go to Mecca without warning and be given the strength of forty men. They will bring upon conversions such as the world has never seen."

Farouk watched him through a lidded gaze, and Sayid saw the young man evaluate his words. _Why does he wonder about them?_ He could not say, but the look did not make him feel easy. He cast a conciliatory smile towards the young man and looked back towards the mosque of the Hidden Twelfth Imam. It grew closer, moving from distance to middle ground as their truck approached it. Very soon they would be upon it, and he quickly checked his gun to ensure he could fire it if necessary.

"And you?" Farouk asked, the question suddenly sounding very grave. "In those last days, what will you do, Sayid?" He leaned in close towards Sayid, searching the older man's face for something. Farouk was ordinarily quite easy to read, but at this particular moment, Sayid had been caught slightly by surprise and could not say for what the boy was searching. "Will you believe in anything?"

––

Sayid performs the prayer again, thinking all the while of Farouk. If what he has heard rumors about are true, and the time on the island is truly the last days for all of them as crash survivors, then he supposes he is answering the young man, even if it is more than a decade too late. He is ever alert for intruders, because if they were to come in and start talking to him, the prayer would be invalidated. Nobody comes, and he concludes the prayer on the third round of actions, then moving back towards the computer.

Should he have felt the presence of a deity? He does not. He has not. That is why he has not prayed in a long time. He sees no break in the twilight clouds that lie in the window in the bedroom, no glow to things that would signify a miracle from God. He knows not to expect such stuff, but he cannot help but feel a little more doubt there. He did not do the prayer for the purpose of religion, however. He did it so he could feel like himself again, like he did when he used to take apart computers that looked like this at Cairo University. He would not have been so faithful to prayers there, either, but Essam and Ibrahim had been far more devout than he, so he had wound up being a good Muslim out of coincidence, not cause.

He does, at least, feel like what he has done is good, however, and that is what matters. Perhaps he can do it again, given time and solitude and access to someplace to wash up again. He looks at the computer wiring, focusing on it at last, and sees the computer's serial number. It does not surprise him to find the familiar pattern there as well. It is a 32-bit machine, too, and he feels that is no chance, either. The numbers add up to that, so that is simply further proof.

"Concern for man and his fate must always form the chief interest of all technical endeavors. Never forget this in the midst of your diagrams and equations. Albert Einstein," a recognizable voice pronounces a quote nearby him. "And I'm concerned: What are you doing with the computer, Sayid? If I didn't know any better, I'd think that you were taking it apart."

Sayid turns around to stare at Locke. There is no good way to explain this, he knows, so he simply shoots the man a sharp look, offering no reply. He shifts his feet slightly, so that he is able to stand up quickly and keep his balance if he needs.

––

They got to the smaller of the two mosques for the Imams, and Sayid was struck by the history of the place alone. He stared at it, taking it all in, until Farouk nudged him slightly, apparently noticing that he had been staring. Jolted, Sayid offered the boy a smile and followed him out of the truck towards the mosque, his eyes still on the tile-work. It was amazingly done, a real feat of engineering, and as he moved onto the perimeter, he heard a burst of gunfire. The first thought that flew through his head quickly was, _Of course I don't get the chance to really investigate anything for its construction._

Milliseconds later, he was picking up his pistol and circling the corner of the mosque. The others stayed closer to the truck, but he did not fault them that. He was the point man on this job, and in all honesty, he much preferred his own counsel for point than that of the younger men. It was safer with him in point, he knew, and he often took it. They had yet to lose anyone, and he moved through the grounds, hearing shrieks from somewhere. They sounded almost inhuman, and he had to swallow down something. Was it fear? The emotion was not something he had felt in a while, and he found it hard to identify.

_Firebombs,_ he suddenly realized. _They are firebombing around here. The Shi'ites and the Sunnis have decided to wage war with one another for the third time this week, with little more than Molotov cocktails and used service revolvers._ He looked towards the spiral mosque of the Great Friday minaret, and saw smoke and flames arising from somewhere nearby. He needed to circle back towards the truck and tell the other Guardsmen. They had to keep the area safe. There was probably nothing serious happening, merely a freak accident or a lone madman, but he had to take all possible care nonetheless. He turned and started to run, but the way his convoy truck shook, the sound of the crash, the way the truck and its people went up in flames brought him to a dead halt.

_I hope Farouk is not in there,_ he thought, and when he stared at the truck, now blazing red, looking like its own display of martyrdom before the mosque, he could not call out the boy's name. The bombers might still be around, and he knew better than to draw their attention to his presence. He fell back into shadow on the mosque grounds, and watched the truck burn, preparing his gun. He could save none of them, could not bring back to life the crisped half dozen bodies that suddenly started to drop from the flames, but he had to save himself.

There was no other way out but forward, though, and the burning truck had cut off that exit. He was all but trapped, unless he made a run for it, and he started counting down to time his run. The heat started to crawl towards the mosque. The fire started to spread onto the ground. Both began to creep towards him.


	7. Down in the Mall

**VII: Down in the Mall**

After he heads away from the truck, Sawyer heads straight for his tent. It's still kept up, but there's some stuff missing. He's not surprised. They're all scavengers, and he took stuff from dead folks. No reason they shouldn't have taken stuff from him. Still, if anyone took his cigarettes, they're going to have hell to pay. He wouldn't put it past anyone, though. He ducks into the tent, heading for where he had hung a bunch of stuff for safe-keeping in a knapsack.

He shoved a few sharp things into the pockets, too, so that in case anyone should get sticky fingers they'll be stuck with something. So he doesn't reach for the pockets immediately, instead laying out a scrap of cloth from someone's torn-up clothing and dumping the contents on the cloth. Straight pins and bits of glass fall out first, and he spots a few cigarettes amidst the contents, flicking them up carefully.

Now for a lighter. He had a lighter around here somewhere, too. He lifts a few cases, rifles through a few sacks and packs and finally finds one. It's not his. It's got a picture of the Space Needle on the front, and he's never seen Seattle. He remembers picking it up from the wreckage, though, thinking that one day, it would come in handy. Apparently it has. He rattles it around in his free hand for a moment before closing his fingers on it and propping himself up on the old airplane seat that he's salvaged from the wreckage as well. Propping the cigarette in his mouth with another hand, he sets fire to it, shutting his eyes almost all the way as he takes a long drag on the smoke.

When he squints, everything glows around him in the twilight sun, the sky peach-to-red against the teal water below. The colors blend, the shapes indistinct, and for a moment he sees a wall of shifting, hazy light, orange above, blue below. Maybe he's hallucinating.

"Hey, you got another one of those?" Sawyer feels his brows lift, and tilts his head up so he's staring at the figure that stepped right on in to his own optical illusion. Charlie's standing there, motioning towards the cigarette. "Smokes. You have another?"

Sawyer doesn't want to share. They're his cigarettes, and the last thing he's going to do is to waste them on some wannabe, almost-was musician. Charlie looks like he'd really like the smoke, though, and from the way that the younger man's screwed up his face when he asks for the requests, he looks desperate for it, too. There's something that can be used there. Sawyer palms the lighter and plucks up a second cigarette from the cloth covered with junk, holding it up like a stick of chalk and motioning with it towards Charlie. "You get this on one condition."

The Englishman doesn't seem inclined to argue with him. He even reaches out for the cigarette halfway, before realizing that Sawyer isn't likely to hand it over that easily. "Yeah?" he asks. "What's that? You want me to move back to the caves? Talk to Claire about that, huh?"

"Well, hell, son, she kick you out? I'll be damned." His lips stretch for a grin. "Nah, I ain't gonna tell you where to live, Chaz. You want to set up camp down here, you go right ahead. I got a more important favor to ask of you." Charlie doesn't blink or draw away, so Sawyer knows that he isn't entirely opposed to helping. That's a good sign. "I want you to keep doin' what you were gonna do." Charlie's face doesn't shift into denial, but he does blink, and a second or two later Sawyer realizes that it's out of confusion, because the young man squints at him, tilts his head, reaches a hand to his collar to signify discomfort. No explanation is needed, but direction's what Charlie's after, and he's more than happy to provide it for the Brit. "That computer you were gonna smash. Go back over there and do it, R.F.N."

"R.F.N.?"

"Right frickin' now. Euphemism."

Charlie takes a few moments to process the command before the gravity of it hits home. "After I smoke, I will," he agrees, if with not quite the punctuality that Sawyer had requested, and reaches out for the cigarette. He gets it, and casts around for a lighter. That isn't going to be provided, though. Sawyer wants to see how long the kid will search for it before asking. Charlie gazes around the place as if trying to find where that "You know, you've got enough stuff here that you don't use, Sawyer, you could probably sell some of it to people. Set up shop."

"The island mall. Hell of an idea. Only thing is, nobody'd pay me anything for it. They wanted something, they'd just take it. They've done it before." He can feel his voice turn snappish at that, sharp, offended somehow, and he's not sure why that is. He's stolen stuff himself, so the idea that he should get pissed off when someone does the same to him doesn't quite make sense. He knows he feels that way, though, and that's what counts. "Lookin' for something?"

"A lighter. Can't smoke if you don't have one, can you?"

Sawyer moves the hand he'd palmed the lighter in and shows it to Charlie, the Space Needle centered in the palm of his hand. "Sleight of hand," he tells Charlie, and then lets his hand go lax, tossing the lighter in a slightly clunky fashion towards him. "You think people would want stuff, though?"

"Everyone wants something," Charlie replies lightly, taking a drag on the cigarette before handing the lighter back.

_Ain't that the truth,_ Sawyer thinks. _We all want something. Even here. We don't worry about survival; we worry about who's going to get the best stuff. Good thing I've got it, then._He studies Charlie as he smokes. He'll have no problem getting him to smash the computer, especially if he figures out a way to bribe him. He won't tell him anything more than that, though. Not a word about _why_ he wants the computer smashed. He doesn't trust the younger man quite that much. He taps some ash from the cigarette, craning his head towards Charlie, running through his words in his head once before he asks them. "If you're sure about that, then what do you think people would do to get stuff?"

"Depends on who you're asking, what they want, and what they have to do to get it," Charlie replies without hesitation, and Sawyer hears a ring of familiarity to those words. They're a classic con mentality, really, but what would some damn musician know about any of that? _Hell, it's not like Mott the Hoople has had a hard life or anything like that._ "Who are you thinking of bribing, though? Besides me, I mean."

Sawyer looks at Charlie slantways, smiling only a little. "Now that ain't none of your business, is it? I need you to know, I'll tell you. All you've got to do is go deal with that damn computer. You got your cigarette, so you agreed to it. No backing out now." He sticks the smoke back in his mouth, looks back towards the water. "You can deal with that computer stuff tonight or tomorrow. Your call. Now scram."

The sudden dismissal takes Charlie by surprise, who straightens a little as if preparing to take offense at it. He thinks better of it, though, declaring, "Yeah, all right," and climbing to his feet.

The way the young man's shadow drifts away from peripheral vision lets Sawyer know that he's taken off, because Charlie isn't worth the effort of actually watching to make sure he leaves. Besides, there are more important things to pay attention to. That water out there, for one, and Charlie's suggestion that he sell people stuff. He hadn't liked the idea of being generous and just giving things out, but if there's something to be gotten for it in exchange, then that's all right. He can do that. He'll have to figure out what he can get rid of without losing too much leverage on other people. That's another ace up his sleeve, though, and he smiles contentedly, takes a long drag on the cigarette, and goes back to staring at the water.

Twilight has come on fully now, and things are growing darker, and he's not sure if it's the way that the sun is hitting the water, the way he's looking at the water, or both, but if he squints again, he doesn't see that wall of light. Instead, he could swear that he sees a strip of land across the way. He must be going stir-crazy, because there's no way he's ever seen that at low tide before.


	8. The Rest of the Night

**VIII: The Rest of the Night**

Light glints off the top of Locke's bald head as he moves closer to the computer, eyeballs prominent, eyes shining. His face is expressionless, slack instead of pursed, but Sayid can tell the condemnation of that very laxness, the control that Locke is having to wield to avoid letting his face contort. They stand there for a moment before the tracker's voice starts up again, forcibly calm, reasonable, philosophical: "Of course, if you _were_ trying to do something to the computer, I would know, because you would have told me. Right, Sayid?"

The silence redoubles upon itself, compounds, expands, like some chemical property is at work in the air. Sayid shakes his head at Locke lightly, trying to limn a difference he has no hope that the older man will believe. He is not sure that he can fault Locke for the presumed disbelief. "I was not trying to do anything to the computer, John. I would have put it back the way it was. I merely wanted to see what it was made of."

He stands up now that he has the chance, since it seems like Locke is not about to close the distance between the two of them. There is probably not a lax muscle in Locke's body, though, and Sayid decides it is probably the smarter course not to draw any closer to the man. Instead, he extends the screwdriver towards Locke, giving the other man the handle, watching him to see what his reaction is.

Locke takes the screwdriver, setting it aside on a shelf rather than pocketing it. That is a test of his own trustworthiness, Sayid knows: Will he take the wrench again now that Locke's just laid it back down? His eyes narrow slightly at Locke, trying to connote to him, _I know what you're trying to do. You may be able to fool the others, but not me, not again._ Locke smiles at that, nodding as if in acceptance. "I believe you, Sayid," he proclaims magnanimously. "Are they talking to you through the computer, like they talk to you through the radio?"

The question brings about a bitter taste in Sayid's mouth. He ignores it, nodding. "They are," he replies. "That is, they were. They have been silent for a while now, and I simply figured I had best use the opportunity to see if I could find out how they were talking to me. There must be some network set up in here for the computer, something archaic and likely obsolete. If I am able to open up the computer, I can likely figure out what it is. You want to know, or am I mistaken?"

He has backed Locke into a corner with his words and, from the look on his face, Locke is well aware of that. A rueful grin spreads across the bald man's features at that. "Just put it back the way it came, Sayid, and don't do anything to it that might alter the button. That's all I ask."

It of course is a huge request, but Locke seems to think he is being generous. Sayid has no intention of letting him think otherwise. "Thank you, John. I figured you would understand when I explained it to you. I appreciate it." He is uncertain why Locke is being so generous with the machinery, but sees no reason to deny himself the opportunity, rare as it might be. Perhaps he, Sayid, really is trusted.

Locke beckons mutely towards the tool he had set down, as if giving permission. Sayid waits until he leaves before moving to take the screwdriver again, however. Otherwise, there is no telling how Locke might react, and Sayid doesn't care to risk the chances.

––

He expects Locke to return, to have figured out something new about the computer, but Locke does not. He is sure it cannot be morning yet, but the glint of the window comes to him earlier than he has expected, and he wonders, _Have I been down here with the computer for the entire night? I was supposed to have someone come in and take over my shift at midnight._ He cannot remember whom it is supposed to be, but is relieved when he hears footsteps down the hallway, heading for the computer room, even smiles when he sees the hooded figure approach. He is tired. It will be good to lie down and get some more sleep, because he has been dealing with mechanics for at least eight straight hours.

"Charlie," he pronounces the young man's name warmly, glancing up for only a moment towards the hooded face before he looks back towards the computer. He has nearly succeeded in extricating the network card, having the back of the tower open, a flashlight shining in, and a pair of tweezers to pluck out the card. It has been delicate work, thus far unnecessarily so, but he has not known with what he is dealing, and does not dare to take chances. He had thought he had more spare time than this, though if his replacement is here, he is at least glad for the temporary relief. He knows how the computer is made, now, and that is what counts. He turns back to look towards Charlie.

What he sees stops him, somewhat. His face is all but lost within the hood, his shoes and blue jeans caked with mud as if he's hiked here irrespective of the muddy ground beneath him, paying no mind to puddles and mud flats. His breathing is short, suggesting either the hike was long or the young man is in an agitated state. From the way Charlie's face peers out towards the computer, focused on it, Sayid is willing to attribute it to some inner turmoil. The young man is given to impulsive action, so his stance, seeking combat, is scarcely surprising.

He sets the tweezers down, carefully, taking his time. Charlie makes no motion, simply standing there and staring at him as if he expects to be asked a question. So Sayid asks it: "What do you want, Charlie?"

Charlie waves a hand towards the computer, the hooded sweatshirt flapping about. "I want to break that bloody thing, Sayid. Out of the way."

_This is why Locke left me with the screwdriver,_ Sayid realizes suddenly. _He knew Charlie would be coming in here, and he wanted to see if I could be trusted, or if I would let Charlie destroy the computer. Would he take such a risk with his beloved computer, though? That makes no sense. Would Charlie go through with this on his own, though? I can't imagine that. There must be someone else behind it, but not Locke._

"I can't do that, Charlie. I am sorry," Sayid replies, giving the young man as apologetic an expression as he can. Something makes his face go tense, though, and he suspects the tension comes from a dark shift on Charlie's face at being refused access to the computer, as if the young man takes offense at the refusal. Sayid knows he must defuse the situation, and he decides to use politeness. "Is there anything else I can do for you, though?"

"You can back off and let me deal with that bloody computer," Charlie replies. His voice is sharp still, none of the harshness in it abated by Sayid's words. "I was going to smash it twice. Once, that psychologist girl tells me no, like she's been around here to know what the hell it is, and second, we were interrupted by the rest of you lot coming back. Third time's the charm."

He starts to move for the computer, but his movements are telegraphed, and Sayid very easily slips in front of Charlie, well aware just his presence alone will stop the young man. As expected, Charlie comes up short at that, staring at Sayid through the darkness of his hood. There is a moment there where the young man gazes at him, entirely blank and expressionless, before he finds the emotion that he wants to convey: Doubt. Sayid can tell, can see the way the gaunt shadows on the young man's face shift to something rounder and fuller with the exhalation of breath.

"Was it Locke?" Sayid asks Charlie softly, staring at him, unblinking. A silence tells him what he had expected: No, it was not Locke who put Charlie up to this. "Who, then?" He has seen the hesitation in Charlie in many other people before, the way the pupils dilate slightly, the tongue flicks out to moisten the lips, the Adam's apple bobs with throat-clearing, the fingers dance nervously, whether in midair or against a surface. He needs to ask again, and he needs to draw out his own words to elicit a reply from the other man. "Who was it, Charlie?"


	9. Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School

**IX: Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School**

She had just settled at her desk when the patients started to show up. They came steadily for a few hours thereafter. It was a Friday, and she had expected less work, but she didn't mind it. It kept her occupied. The hours flew by, and although she had expected to relax over the lunch hour, it didn't work, the chatter around her serving only to work at her nerves even more. In between listening to her coworkers chatter about the pathology of the week, she believed the waitress had forgotten their checks.

What was worse was that pretty young clinician had decided to stay behind with her and start going on about this new guy that she had met, Scott Johnson or Jackson or Jones, and how Scott had this internet company up in San Francisco but was frequently down in Los Angeles for business, and how the clinician was sure that Scott had a _nice_ friend and how she would gladly set Libby up with the friend, if Libby wanted.

Libby wanted nothing more than for the clinician to resist the temptation to set her up. But she smiled and nodded, and said, "Yes, of course; that'd be great," and tried to look as if she meant it. She was surprised that the clinician believed her.

When she got back to the office, her mood was worse than ever. It would be one of those days where every nod and smile would take an effort, and where she would be thinking about skiing while one of the patients told her about some terrible trauma. She checked her notes, and knew instantly whom was coming in: The dancer. The girl that taught at the ballet studio, with all the Valley Girl friends. Every third Friday was the signal for Libby to practice putting on her best fake smile, as the girl talked about how insecure she was, and how all of the other people that taught there were rich, and the children were rich, and she was the only one without money.

That wasn't quite the truth. Somehow, Dominique always managed to pay. Ballet school paid better than the girl liked to reveal, and besides, as the daughter of two tenured professors at UCLA, she was not exactly poor.

The hypocrisy of it gnawed at Libby, though she couldn't really identify why. There were many worse liars than Dominique who came in for inexpensive counseling, and if the girl was lying about money, that was better than many other things she could have lied about. According to Dr. Lee, the official policy of the clinic was not to attack the lie or investigate it unless it posed a physical threat to oneself or to the people in the patient's life, so she didn't really need to worry about it anyway.

She pulled the girl's file, looking at her photograph and then at the notes. There were more of them than she had expected, for a simple case of insecurity and anxiety. The girl did not seem pathological, but she had talked a lot about how jealous she was of her friends, and Libby had done her best to reassure her, thinking all the while, _I wonder why she even works at that ballet school with them, if she feels so insecure around them._ Why the girl at nineteen could not just pack her bags and leave, Libby did not know, but once more, it was not her place to ask questions. She made a mental note to suggest it to Dominique, though, if she was given the opportunity.

The phone rang, and she set the folder down. Norman was on the other end of the line. He wanted to talk with her. More accurately, she realized, he wanted to question her. "Are you going to the party tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you remember my inviting you along three weeks ago? This is important, Libby. It's not a social event. I thought I impressed upon you that it was important. The clinic's benefactors want to meet you. You should be flattered."

"Of course. I _am_ flattered."

"Well, are you going?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I think so. I have a patient, Norman. Can we talk about this later?"

"One-fifty-four PM," he said briskly and hung up. She had to smile at that, because the session with poor jealous Dominique was out at one-fifty, and that gave her only four minutes before she had to close out the file and walk down the hall towards his office. That was, if Dominique showed up. It was already two minutes after one, and the girl had not yet appeared. She briefly considered setting the office to rights, but decided against it. Being walked in on while she was running the mini-vac would be embarrassing. She would wait, then, and if Dominique was late, Dr. Lee would just have to suffer the consequences. It wasn't her problem.

"Yeah, Shannon. Yeah, I know. I know, I know, I have to teach the seven-year-olds arabesques. I know that. I know that. I know that." It was an eventful conversation, to be sure, although it seemed to be only taking place on one end of the phone. It was not the end that Dominique was holding up, either. "Yeah. Look, I'm at the – the grocery store, all right? I need to pick up some chips and beer. Yeah, he's coming by today. No, not the French one. He's a perv. No, the older brother – you remember, right? Yeah, him. Listen, I've got to go. 'K. Bye."

Dominique's outfits always amused her. Today the girl was wearing a frilly crinoline skirt with a dressy sleeveless top, and the puffiness of the bottom and slimness of the top made Libby think of nothing but a walking feather duster. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing for a moment before her voice and her face smoothed out enough that she could look at the girl with a straight face and speak in an even voice. "Hey, Dominique. That was Shannon?" _One of the dancing instructors with money that Dominique doesn't think she has,_ she thought, although she saw no need to remind Dominique of that disparity.

"Yeah," Dominique declared, sailing on in. "I tell her I'm other places. You know. I mean, she'd just die if she thought I was talking to a shrink. I bet she doesn't need one, though. She's rich." The girl settled in the chair across from Libby, eyeing her sullenly. Libby dreaded the diatribe on distribution of wealth that was about to follow. She didn't receive it, though. Instead, Dominique focused her anger on something different than Shannon's money this time. She focused it on Shannon herself: "She thinks she's so great, you know, because her parents have money. Her family's just as screwed up as mine. I heard her arguing with her stepmom once, the one that runs the catering business, Carlyle, and her brother and she – they're just weird. I don't know what it is, but there's something there." The brunette's hands tightened on the arms of the armchair. "It spooks me, though. They're skeevy."

Libby shook her head, offering the younger woman a bland smile. "Carlyle. They do our catering here. They make good food. In fact," she continued briskly, "I've seen the young man that manages the catering. He's good-looking. Shannon's brother?"

Dominique's brows drew together in frustration. She wasn't sure. "Probably," she finally replied. "And yeah, he's cute enough. But Boone's a mama's boy. Goody two-shoes. Shannon can't stand him. Still, though, that's cool that they do your catering. I'll have to tell Sh – wait, no, I can't, because she doesn't know about this place."

Libby watched the deception form without comment, thinking, _I can't quite figure Dominique out. She says she dislikes Shannon, but she doesn't want to let on that she's here. Does she want to be accepted by this girl? Why? She's nothing but some silly Valley Girl._ She leaned in a bit, making a few marks down. They were not for Dominique, though. They had nothing to do with Dominique. Instead, an idea was forming, slowly but surely. It was not her own idea, though she wished it was.

Dr. Lee had said that he was looking for people – not just people like her, for the party, to meet with the benefactors. He had said that he was looking for people to be test subjects. This girl and her brother that Dominique mentioned sounded a decent addition, and if one was the son of the clinic's caterer, so much the better. Norman would be able to arrange things with them. A little more payment for the catering in exchange for some help on the matter of experiments would be no trouble at all.

She knew that they would not be the best subjects – they had not been monitored, and they were as much wild cards as she had been – but she wanted to suggest them anyway. He would agree with her. He had to agree with her. He valued her opinion, she had said once, and she would make him prove it. They would be decent control subjects, if they had been unmonitored, representing the random population. She would be recognized for her contribution. She liked that idea, and she suddenly found herself looking forward to the party tonight. She would have a surprise for Dr. Lee.

"… so then I thought, God, can't these little kids manage to do a _pas de deux_? It isn't like I ask them to be Anna Pavlova, just to do a little ballet. I mean, they're at ballet school to learn how to do ballet. That's what I'd thought, at least."

She sat there and listened to Dominique drone on about ballet and _pieds_ and _Coppelia_, and although she normally would have been interested in the details about dance, she could not focus on them now. She was surprised that Dominique didn't realize that she wasn't paying attention, but she was grateful for it all the same. Six minutes to two couldn't come fast enough.

"Thank you, but I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today, Dominique," she said at length, and she ushered the girl out as politely as she could. Four minutes until she could tell Dr. Lee her plan, and she was sure he would agree. She walked down the hallway to his office and saw him there in consultation with someone. She recognized the someone as a heavyset young man, one of Dr. Lee's personal consultations. She had given his file over to Dr. Lee before, and she slipped aside so she wouldn't be interrupting. The long-haired Hispanic boy didn't even look at her as he made his way from Dr. Lee's office and thundered down the hall.

"The Reyes boy?" she asked as she headed into Dr. Lee's office. He was writing down something on Reyes' file. "I remember him. How is he doing?"

Dr. Lee looked up at her and smiled. It didn't make her feel easy. She never felt that great when he smiled. Something about the expression, the tightening effect it had on people's faces, worked for most people, but didn't work for him. The tightness seemed to only increase the severity of his face, casting it into sharper relief. It was tight around his eyes, too, so she knew that he meant it. "He's doing well, Libby," the Asian man replied. "In fact, he's going to be a good resource."

"I have some more resources for you." She drew a deep breath and handed him the paper. She'd drawn it up while Dominique was rambling on about ballet, and had put down her thoughts about Shannon and the caterer's son, Boone Carlyle. She expected Dr. Lee to lambaste her for not paying attention to the patient, even if it was Dominique. She expected the man to say some things about how she had better not get involved in things she didn't understand, and, since she didn't understand it, she had better learn more before she tried to involve herself again. She was not even dreading the lecture, because she expected it so much, although she did feel her hands tighten at it.

Dr. Lee only nodded in approval upon reading the paper. "They'll do nicely, yes," he replied slowly. "They won't be much use, but that's the point; that's why you suggested them." He paused a moment, as if about to say something more, and then shook his head, thinking better of it. Dark, almost black eyes lifted to meet hers, the emotion in them indecipherable. He even smiled further. "Thank you, Libby. You're doing well. You'll come to the party tonight, of course."

She let out a little laugh. It was harder than she had expected it to sound, or wanted it to sound. "Of course I will, Norman," she replied. She smiled towards him, and felt the tightness of her own expression, her lips pressing together solidly. "As long as you appreciate my contribution, that's what counts."


	10. The Overdraft

**X: The Overdraft**

"We're going to bring it to them now," the redhead proclaims, leaning into his words heavily as if to give them more emphasis. They sit and wait. Most look straight ahead at the slight man, their focus intent. "You have something to look forward to now. We've given them enough credit. They don't deserve it anymore. It's time to take it back."

"You mean, _you_ don't deserve it anymore. You let them go, Kelvin. You had them and you let them go." One of the subordinates is feeling bold, it seems. The words are pronounced with too much certainty. Confident. Self-assured. There's something wrong there. The man pulls together his lab coat as if it's a suit of armor and looks towards the ceiling to avoid Kelvin's eyes. "You're just doing this because you're angry."

Kelvin sighs, shaking his head. "I _am_ angry. But he'll be angrier." The subordinate draws away, scowling, keeping his hands protectively on his lab coat. His arms fold across one another as if in some prelude to self-defense. Kelvin smiles and continues, pointing at the subordinate. "You. You spoke up, so you're going to be the first out there to watch them before we bring things to the second stage. Lucky number one." He looks down the table, but nobody is watching him anymore. They know how this goes, most of them. They've done it before. He hasn't. He was Stateside sixteen years ago. But they remember how things went, and he is thankful for that. He doesn't have to explain much, so he keeps it brief. "We're going to go out there and we're going to observe, and when the time comes, we're going to go after them again. They know where we are, so the experiment is to go into lock-down. We have been compromised."

Unrest. People shuffle in their seats, twirl pens around, look at Palm Pilots. One of them is going to say something, and he keeps watching, trying to figure out whom it will be. They're all nameless, faceless drones. Why are they suddenly growing spines and the ability to think for themselves?

The thought enters his head: _They say that we're testing the people we've stranded, but maybe we're the ones being tested. Given this serum to make us better, stronger, faster. Given the ability to control the fates of these people who aren't in on the plan, but who we know have the capability to do well. Perhaps the Initiative wants to see what we'll do with the opportunity._ That chills him, and he does his best to force a smile on his face, but can feel it fail with the shudder that courses through his spine, which he hopes doesn't show in his shoulders.

The first guy doesn't speak, but the guy next to him does. "You're the one that compromised us, Kelvin. This was your idea. We knew that he wasn't ready yet. We told you that. But you wanted to deal with him now. You said that he was drugged enough and drunk enough not to be capable of doing what he did. And now you want us to take on the rest of them? You don't exactly have a winning track record."

It's a sensible question, Kelvin knows, and part of him wants to address it as such. The other part of him wants to instantly have the guy fired, or left outside to fend for himself as an example for the test subjects. He manages to refrain from making the suggestion, though. He's been in a dangerous spot himself for the past few days, as it is, and nobody is irreplaceable. He sighs, shaking his head, settling back a bit in his chair, watching one of the others spinning his pen backwards and forwards, over and over. The movement is hypnotic, and it takes him a moment to snap out of it. "I want you to watch. They've taken the bait and, when the time comes, I'll give you the word. Need I remind you that you are not in charge."

The younger man bristles, but Kelvin shakes his head at him, and the guy settles down. _They're not in a good mood. They know we've endangered things by letting it continue, even in a locked-down state. I have to find a way to reassure them somehow._ He glances down the row of bored faces, flashing PDA screens, fingers flickering over the surfaces, and draws a deep breath. This will take some talking. He will have to convince them.

"It starts with increased technological contact. Nothing physical. Not yet. But we must talk to them. We have made contact with a few, and they all think they're the only ones taking to us. We will increase the frequency of our communications, and then we will see where they're taking the truck. That will tell us where they're headed, what they've tried." He steeples his fingers together, pressing his fingertips into one another. "They will turn against one another. When they finally do, we will be there, offering understanding to those that want it, offering weaponry to those that want that, offering knowledge to those that want that as well. Always measure the response to the individual in question."

He pauses for a moment, timing himself. Murmurs of agreement issue from around the room, and he is relieved at that. They understand. They agree. The purpose of the experiment can still be carried out, even if the conditions have changed. They were so close to putting their plans into motion, and although this is different, it is not _that_ different. There are always ways.

––

Kelvin can never understand why people bother to personalize their quarters. As he walks through the bunk room, he sees posters, CD racks, books, everything arranged to come as close to home as fifty square feet of space can manage. Who needs that, though? Do they really need Jimi Hendrix's Afro and guitar looming over them to remind them that they are still in the real world? Do they need the books – always crap like Steven King, never decent literature – to take their minds off from what they're doing in the middle of nowhere? He always thinks that's strange and a waste of time. His own quarters, clean and sparse and unadorned, consisting of only a bunk and a footlocker in which precious few memorabilia are contained, are far nicer. Everything is orderly there, scientific, almost antiseptic in the chaos of the dormitories.

_Just a few more months,_ he tells himself, like he's told himself for a few weeks before. _You'll be going home then. The experiment will be over._ He is looking forward to it more than he wants to admit to himself. He stretches out on the bunk, shutting his eyes, and is momentarily lost on Avenue B before he hears footsteps and can sense someone hovering nearby. "Whaddaya want, Desmond?"

The Irishman speaks before Kelvin's really had a chance to collect his thoughts, the hurried pace of the words irritating him somehow: "Just wonderin' when you're actually gonna get this experiment underway is all. I mean, we've been setting it up for the past few weeks, and since what you did could be termed a 'false start' if I'm bein' generous…" The words are more accusatory than Desmond realizes, but the apologetic grin Kelvin is given may signify at least some realization.

"I said it at the meeting," Kelvin responds. He sits up, and then stands up, staring solidly at Desmond. "At which you were conveniently absent. Crisis of conscience?"

The Irishman shakes his head, muttering something that Kelvin can't quite hear. Kelvin figures that he doesn't want to know what the man is saying, so he doesn't inquire. Desmond finally clears his throat and stops the head-shaking, replying, "Not at all, Kelvin. I still believe in the damned experiment, or I wouldn't be here. You know that. Even if I didn't believe in it – and I do – I've given way too much time to it to be backin' out now."

"Good." Kelvin pauses a moment, looking over the other man's left shoulder. Beyond them, a quartet of laboratory assistants is preparing for monitoring duty; he wonders how long it's been since they've had sleep, and how they can hope to be effective surveillance if they're not on the ball. He'll have to mention that to Candle later. He'll have to avoid giving names, too. He has no wish to get individuals in trouble. Not individuals he works with, at least. He looks back towards Desmond, sighing. "To answer your question, then, I mentioned at the meeting that we'll progress now. Everything is in place; it is all a question of how fast we take it."

A grin at that, and a nod that sends long hair bobbing. "How fast we take _them_, you mean," Desmond replies. "That's a question that we answer, too. We can take them any time we like. I think we should do it fast. The sooner the better. Plan too much, and we'll lose our chance when the time comes to act."

"Precisely." Kelvin shifts his weight onto his outside foot, starting to walk away. There are things that must be done. He cannot afford the time for conversation. He thinks he spots Desmond's lava lamp in one of the brace of bunks across the way, and he scowls at it. It's just more evidence of personalization, and he isn't comfortable with people being too attached to where they are and to the project with which they're involved. He has expected it of Desmond, but for some reason, it still annoys him, still frustrates him in its assumption. "They know where our masers are. They know that we have enough Hatches to expend two. They know that we are watching them. So we must act, and soon."

"And if you fail this time?" Desmond trails along after him, his hands shoved into his pockets, an annoyingly earnest look on his face. "If we fail this time," he corrects himself, and Kelvin is grateful for the slight correction, because at least that means that he isn't the only one to blame. "What will we do then, Kelvin? How will we get ourselves out of that, if we have already used up all our resources this time?"

"We still have plenty of resources, Desmond. Don't worry." Kelvin can't even say that Desmond's question nags at him, because he does know that they have enough resources, and that they do have permission from Candle to take whatever risks are necessary in the higher stages of the experiment. "Any other questions, go to Marvin. I won't be the one saying how or when or where. I've been involved with this since the start, but that's all that I am. I have no official capacity. I don't want it." He quickens his pace, and is relieved when the Irishman doesn't follow.

The dormitories give way to a long hallway, and he stops, leaning against the sturdy metal construction of the hallway, the surface cold and sending a chilly touch through him. It feels like hiding out in the sewers, and there is something equally unpleasant about their residence. He wants to see daylight again, the windows on the upper level that give way to the outside, but he has not been assigned to that floor, and he does not dare change the way that things are run. The last thing he wants was a lecture from Marvin Candle. He knows that he could get away with the liberty, but he does not want to risk it, all the same.

The hallway shakes a bit with the sonic rumblings. Someone has sent the monster on a joyride again, and he shakes his head at that. Trust someone with the sonic and vibration controls of the island, and look what they do with it; they make him feel like he is the only adult in the dormitories. He is not even sure why his superiors have set up the monster to roar and shake like it did. Just about anything else would have been less open to temptation of misuse. He is not the one making decisions, however. That has already been made painfully clear to him.

He wants a smoke, but he can't smoke down here. He can chew gum, though, and he's taken to doing that inside the maze of paths beneath the retooled warehouse. He pulls out a stick of gum, popping it in his mouth, and focuses his attention in the clear panel across the way. 108-B. Lloyd, Walter.

The boy's reconditioning is going well. He can see the small figure, knows there are plenty of invisible, unwired connections to the boy's brain that they have set up. He expects it to look like science fiction, but all he sees is some kid, ten or eleven, sitting and reading one of the books one of the laboratory assistants have lent him. That's all the kid does these days. If the boy were doing anything else, they would know. They took him away so he could be no more trouble to the experiment, with his abilities, and Kelvin is secure in the knowledge that, ever since he's gotten here, the boy is no trouble at all.

He must have a talk with young Mr. Lloyd to reassure himself of this, though. He can't do it now; shifts will switch shortly and he has to explain to Candle all the particulars of what went wrong with Ford. He is not looking forward to that opportunity, but he will come back and he will talk with the boy; he will isolate what makes him tick. They can use that with the copy they have, and they can use the copy to help them. Some good came out of the unexpected child, after all, and only good things can follow. They have made sure of that already.


	11. Prison Grove

**XI: Prison Grove**

The final briefing was never something Sayid enjoyed or cared to sit through. If he were to be blunt and honest with himself about it, it bored him, and he knew it interested none of his coworkers. His supervisor tried to make it compelling, talking with them in informal tones, impressing upon them the necessity of their work and the duty to the great state, but they had heard this all before. It was always required. It had not been interesting since the third repetition.

The supervisor remarked upon the capture, the people involved, ways that they might be broken, how they could approach each individual in terms of a tactic. That was more compelling to Sayid than the rhetoric about Iraq. Virtually anything would have been, though. _For all that we decried the Americans' jingoism, we seem plenty open to the exercise of it ourselves,_ he thought, and then brought his senses back to the matter at hand. From across the cheap table, he caught Omar smiling towards him, as if the man could read his thoughts. He drew himself straighter at that smile, wondering if he should take the risk to sketch a salute towards Omar. He didn't, though. It was unnecessary.

The supervisor was now discussing the likelihood of any of those captured to break, imploring them to exercise great care. This was a more sensitive issue than most, and Sayid murmured obligingly along with the rest of them. He would exercise care. He was always careful. He had learned that over the past few years, and not just caution in the field of torture, either.

They had already received their responsibilities, so there was nothing to be said on the issue of delegation. They were only encouraged to work as a team, to talk with others at all time, to not rule out any possibilities of what they would encounter or be told. The supervisor looked around the table at all of them, too quickly for Sayid or any of the others to meet the man's eyes. "Let them know you mean business," the supervisor said.

Sayid thought: _Before I started in this line of work, I would have taken that as a suggestion to threaten._ Now, he knew, it was only an encouragement of professionalism. He knew as well that neither he nor Omar, nor any of the others seated here, needed any reminders to conduct themselves expertly. He started to file out with the others, and saw Omar motion to the hallway. The fellow needed to talk, and Sayid was quite willing to chat. It would be a few minutes before the traitors were brought in. Talking with Omar was less of a struggle, as well.

––

It was a solemn matter, almost furtive. They grasped hold of whatever they could, what little shreds of humanity they had left, amidst cracked teeth, split lips, the faces of both men and women bruised and black-eyed. There was little light in a place like this, though he could feel the sun glint down upon him as he walked away from the first session and outside into one of the breezeways, looking for Omar.

The one thing he liked about Omar was that, on some level, his friend understood the need for solitude and secrecy in what they were doing. Omar never talked business around him, and for that little kindness, he was grateful. They talked about the football leagues and the latest films that had shown up on the black market, nothing but niceties, and that sort of idle chat always took some of the weight off of Sayid's shoulders. Today, however, he could do none of that. Omar was nowhere to be found. He wished he wasn't separated from his friend. They reassured each other about what they were doing, and Sayid was sure that he could have used that today. He could only hope that he would not disgrace himself, from his own unevenness.

He did not have the chance to consider it. The alarm rang, and he took his pistol out of his holster, preparing himself. The shouts from another path a few buildings over told him he had nothing to be afraid of at the moment, but he went over that way to investigate all the same, despite the relative lack of threat. He had to be sure. If he was being evaluated, he had to do his best, and although he did not suspect it, he was paranoid of it; there was always a chance, and if he was caught off his guard, _he_ would be the next one interrogated for failure to support the state. Given his disinterest in the ideology, he was frankly surprised it hadn't already happened.

His prisoner could be let sit there, alone, for a while. The man had been uncooperative, and he got better results if they were left alone for at least a couple of hours before the interrogation was redoubled. That way, the element of uncertainty worked in his favor: When would he come back? What would he do when he came back? He knew from previous interrogations how well the tactic worked. Besides, although he would never have admitted it if asked, he was curious what had caused the alarm. He started for the other causeways, his arm taut and his face feeling even more tense.

––

Sayid had not expected the escapee to show any sort of contrition for the attempt. He was not sure what he expected out of the newly captured prisoner, but he was nonetheless disturbed by what he saw. The face was blank, slack, as if that of an idiot. On the wrists that they'd handcuffed before he got there, the veins stood out in sharp blue contrast, protruding from the skin of the man's arms like a dual portion of a topographic map. Some of his fellows stood around the man, huddled as if they could hope to read the man's mind from simple surveillance.

There were many suggestions, and their variety unnerved him. They had their orders. Their orders were not to beat the man to death, nor to fix a rusty, outdated bayonet to a rifle and stab the man, neither to hang him (shooting was the prescribed method), nor to inquire of him why he had escaped, what he hoped to accomplish by that. He agreed with the last one, the questions, but he knew better than to ask.

Why did his fellows not agree with the party line on escapees? They were to be interred and then, if it was requested, shot. It did not need to be a crueler fate than that, and he was disturbed by all the enthusiasm for alternative courses of action. Perhaps he had a weak stomach for this business. It gnawed at him a little, before he shook his head, cleared his mind, and looked where the ruffle of paper had just sounded, trying to ignore the sound of another Guardsman putting the boot into the escapee's side.

Someone had the man's identification papers out and was passing them around. Sayid took the papers and stared at them. He would have gasped, but he did not dare. "I knew your relative," he told the prisoner, and received no answer. The captive lay there, staring up at the sky, mute. He pressed his lips together for a moment, timing himself. "Noor Abed-Jazeem."

"Nobody calls her – "

"Noor. Yes, I have heard that." Sayid's voice was quiet. He guessed it did not sound too urgent. He hoped that he had not already given himself away. "Whom is she to you?"

The prisoner's face had a stopped twitch, as if the man would have spoken again given a chance. Sayid had every intention of listening to him talk further. He could only think of clockwork, of a watch stopped just before it was about to tick to a crucial few seconds. However, Omar had drawn up beside him, and he glanced towards the taller man, felt confusion lance through him at an expression of his friend's that he happened to catch. "The man has already admitted complicity with the journalist's communiqué to us, Sayid. That is why he was brought in to us." Omar's voice grew slightly harsh. "Do you know an acquaintance of his?"

Sayid wanted to say, _Yes, of course I know an acquaintance of his. I know his cousin, or second-cousin, whatever she is to him to share his father's brother's name and to also be from Tikrit. I know the rich family, and I know her. I have known everything about her since I was a child._ He could not say that, though. He did not dare say that. He knew quite well what would happen to him if he admitted familiarity, because familiarity was the same as complicity, even when it actually was nothing of the sort.

He shook his head at Omar, trying not to make it too forceful, trying not to signal at all to his friend that he had any stake in whether Omar believed him. Trying to fool an interrogator was a difficult process, he knew, and he disliked being on the other end of the procedure. "No, sir," he responded evenly. "Only in passing." He smiled at Omar, knowing he was losing his only chance to find Nadia. He would get no sleep tonight, he knew, but it was better to lose sleep than to lose his life through shooting or hanging. Unlike the escaped prisoner, it would likely be the latter fate for him. He was a Republican Guard. He was expected to be the better soldier. He had done his best to be so, no matter the cost.

He would continue that path, he resolved. As much as he suddenly wanted to find her again, never seeing Nadia would have to be the sacrifice for keeping himself alive. Feeling his feet shuffle beneath him, he stepped back, leaned against the stone wall of a nearby building, and did his level best not to meet Omar's glance again. He was not a good liar. He was aware of that. He hoped Omar would not be aware of it as well.


	12. A Whole Diff't Person When You're Scared

**XII: You're a Whole Different Person When You're Scared**

Everybody at the Hardee's was from somewhere else, going to somewhere else. That was the thing about fast food restaurants that always bothered James. The food might be just as bad at the diner where he'd worked the past year or two, but at least there was a consistency to it. At least all the customers that came were people that he knew. That had been a change, and he'd liked it. He'd felt normal for at least a little while.

Getting busted had screwed that up, though. All because of a goddamn joint, his foster parents had decided that he would do better elsewhere – anywhere but in their house, apparently. He'd been there for four years, since twelve, but now it was back to Knoxville and group homes. Back to the city where nobody gave a damn about him, not even the social workers. _Fantastic,_ he thought, as he leaned on the flimsy little barrier meant to keep people in line. The barrier irritated him, all of a sudden. He was the only one in the line. Why did he have to wait behind this little plastic-and-metal contraption? Didn't they think he could manage on his own? He shoved at it, not hard enough to make it fall, but hard enough so that the girl behind the cash register looked up at him, her practiced smile faltering. That pleased him.

_At least there's one person here today that isn't going to act fake,_ he thought, and he smiled at her glare, appreciating it. He picked up his duffel bag, shouldering it so he could move a little faster, and studied the menu as she snapped her gum. It was early, and he didn't want lunch yet. "Frisco sandwich," he requested, thinking it was odd that here he was, in the Tennessee boonies, ordering a meal named for a West Coast city. "And a Coke." The Masons wouldn't have liked him getting a Coke this early in the morning, but they probably weren't his parents anymore.

The sourdough sandwich took too little time to prepare to make it any good, but he paid for it and took it anyway, and looked around the plasticene booths for a familiar face. He found it on a fortysomething black woman who waved him her way. He wanted to be anywhere but talking with her, but he didn't have any choice anymore. She was his legal guardian, as he was a ward of the state, and he would have left the state, but he had nowhere to run to. So he picked up his tray and walked over towards her, plunking it down on the booth.

"How'd your hearing go?" She started the conversation with business. He'd expected her to do that. She didn't give him any bull, and he liked that. She was all right. Some of her coworkers were awful, and he knew that not many kids he'd known had liked her, but he did. She was honest.

James shrugged carelessly. "Fine. It was OK. It wasn't like I was doin' anything real bad. It was just a joint."

"You were lucky to get away with just probation. You could have spent up to two years in jail." He could hear the lecture starting, and he dreaded it. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite of it before speaking again. "That means that you're a ward of the state again, James. And you've almost aged out. You're almost done with your sophomore year of high school. I don't know if we'll find somewhere to put you for the next two years."

"Sounds like the Youth Cottages again, huh? All right." He tried to sound casual about it. He took a bite of his sandwich, and though these things usually tasted fantastic, the sourdough bread and egg and ham and Swiss didn't taste like anything but sand today. He chewed mechanically, watching her. "Fine with me, ma'am." He leaned back in the booth casually. If he dared, he might have even put his feet on the booth. He didn't dare. But he did give her a toothy grin instead. "We goin' back there today, then? I'll need to pack."

Something about his words, she didn't like. She ran a hand through her fastidiously styled Afro and just stared at him. For a moment, she thought she might yell. It was almost worse when she didn't do that.

––

Sawyer's exhausted this morning. He just wants to lie there in the tent. He'll deal with things later. He wants a smoke now, but he used up one too many on Charlie last night. He can't afford one right now, not if he has to ration them out. Charlie isn't getting another one, even if he does the work to order. Not even the computer being broken is worth him giving up any more of his smokes.

_You told every girl that bitched at you about smoking that you'd quit one day,_ he tells himself, and laughs bitterly at that. He'd thought it had been a lie. He'd seen himself at fifty, hooked up to some bed somewhere with tubes running all into his lungs because they were pitch-black, but apparently he's going to be asked to give up smoking well before that anyway. Just a few cigarettes left, unless they get some sort of charity from the guys across the way. He's plenty damn sure he doesn't want that, too. So he's got to quit, and he's going to enjoy every last cigarette he's got left, not waste any more of them on some goddamn teen rocker who wouldn't know real music if it smacked him in the face.

He's desperate for a smoke, sort of, but he needs food more, and what he's got in the tent won't do any damn good. Some mixed crackers from one of the salvaged bins from the plane, Cheez-Its and pretzels and these weird little twig-like crackers that he never liked, but he's eaten plenty of them since they crash-landed on the island. He wants to save those crackers, though, because they'll keep for a while, and God only knows when they'll get rescued.

_Rescued,_ he thinks. _You still think that way, when you know better._ They won't be rescued. They'll be released, when the Others are good and ready to release them, when they're "better." For now, he guesses, they're content just to wait and see what happens. There should be some sort of a strike force. They should head on back through the jungle, now that they know the way and they've got the truck to go over there, and go at the place with a bunch of guns, Charles Bronson-style. He'd never convince anyone else of that except Rambina, though, and he doesn't really like the odds where she's concerned. Friendly fire, only not real friendly.

All he has to do is wait it out, though. Nothing will happen to him, though. Not yet. He's got luck on his side; he must have. Lucky not to have gotten killed about five times over already. Lucky not to be still in the warehouse of doom. Lucky to be back here. Lucky to be left alone, rather than someone asking questions already.

He's surprised nobody's come to find out what he knows yet, but that's not his problem. He's fine with being left alone, but Christ, he's hungry. He ducks out of the tent, looks around for people, and is relieved to see that nobody's up this early. It's better that way. He won't feel like he's taking food from a bunch of people that deserve it more, if he doesn't have to see them.

They won't have food forever, though. They'll run out sometime, and that possibility scares them. The guys over in the cement city won't let them starve, but he's sure they'll ask a hell of a price for giving them food, and he doesn't want to have to bargain with them. What is there to bargain? A hatch. A lava-lamp. Some books that look like they belong in a dollar store. _Themselves_.

None of the above are of any value except the last, and losing the last would cost them way too much. They've been conned. They haven't got a single goddamn ace on their side. He can't tell anyone that, though. Half of these morons would give themselves up, and the other half would go out and fight, and either option would be pointless. He'll keep it to himself for as long as he has to. He sucks at keeping secrets unless it really counts, but this one, he's confident he can keep, because it scares the hell out of him. He wouldn't trust anyone else with the realization, anyway.

Sawyer wanders towards the canvas bags someone's set up that house a collection of mangoes. Everything that everyone's got has been put in there, at least one smart thing they've done, and he reaches in, takes out a piece of fruit, inspects it. He's not too sure how mangoes are supposed to feel – softer, harder? He never bought them in grocery stores – but this one feels all right and looks all right. He flips out a pocketknife, starting to peel it carefully, watches the peels drop to the sand, red to green to yellow, and then takes a bite of the fruit. Starving. Can't even taste it. He chews mechanically and then swallows it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Napkins are in short supply; that's for damn sure.

There's not a damn thing to be done about their situation, he realizes. Nothing to do but to hang out there, hope they're beneath the radar once they've destroyed all the surveillance equipment, not hassle the locals anymore. He stows his knife away and takes a few more bites, then almost chokes as he's finishing the last of the fruit off. A small figure, striding towards him like a midget gunfighter. Rambina has apparently decided it's time for breakfast as well.

"Mornin'. We ain't got any Grand Slam breakfasts here," he calls out to her sunnily. "It's mangoes or coconuts, and the coconuts are a pain in the ass to crack. You got to hike over to the stake. I bet you could just smash one against your head, though. Wouldn't harm nothin' worth saving."

Ana smirks at him, unappreciative. "Funny." She picks a mango, motions towards him. He stares for a moment, feeling stupid, before she elaborates in a punchy fashion, "Gimme the knife." He can feel his eyes widen, and she explains like she's talking to a slow kid. He's heard that tone from her before. "You didn't peel yours open with your fingers, did you?"

He rolls his eyes, draws out the knife, tosses it to her. Maybe he should open it so she'll cut herself, but he doesn't think of that in time. She catches it and starts peeling as well, and thank God, because at least she's quiet for a few moments.

That sort of blessing can't last forever, though, and as soon as she's started to chow down on the impromptu breakfast, she starts yapping away. "So what happened at the Hatch when we got back?" He tries to play dumb. She doesn't buy it. That grade-school teacher tone again. "When Locke threw that knife. You were going to break that computer down there. Why is there a computer down there? Why'd you want it broken?"

Sawyer shrugs. "That ain't none of your business, is it now? You ain't a cop anymore, Carmen Sandiego."

The smirk grows, but there's a crucial difference: "She was a crook, not a cop."

"Same difference." He knows that will burn her up, and it does. She glares at him for a long moment, but doesn't say anything about it. He finishes off the last of his mango, motioning for his knife back. "To answer your question – I'll be straight with you; don't worry," he adds, to head _that_ off at the pass; " – I wanted to smash the computer because it isn't any good. Nothin' in that place is. It's all connected with the command center back there, where you guys found me. And I was thinkin' if we broke it, that'd at least screw them up some."

Ana-Lucia snorts, an exasperated sound. "So we break it, they get pissed off, and then they come here and kill us. Hell of a plan you've got there, Jim Jones." He flinches at 'Jim' before realizing she doesn't know. She was just name-calling. "No, that wasn't all of it." She adopts a sturdy stance, and he realizes that he's not going to get off quite as easily as he'd hoped. "So what's the rest?"

––

The social worker droned on about how, if they could find him a family, they would, but he had better not get his hopes up, given that he was older, and now he had a record as well, and nobody liked to adopt problem cases. He'd always been a problem case. He just had proof of it now, proof that he was every bit as bad as he knew that he was. That felt OK. He had expected it to feel terrible, but the revelation relieved him slightly. Thinking he might have had some worth, that he had blown it, would have been a lot worse, and he almost grinned as he listened to her talk, but knew he'd have to share what had made him grin, and so forced the smile off before it hit.

James stared at the couples that came in, ate, got up, left. White, black, Hispanic – they all looked the same to him. They all wore the same clothes and ate the same way, ordered the same thing, said the same useless crap to each other. Maybe they were the same people, over and over, just in different clothes. They all camouflaged themselves into the restaurant, looked like every other customer just like every other Hardee's looked like every other Hardee's.

Nobody looked at him. Nobody cared. He could have just gotten away with serial killing, not pot possession, and there could be a wanted poster with his name on every table and every stretch of blank wall, and he still wouldn't have been found out. Nobody would have noticed. He lived on the edge of everyone's consciousness, and, he realized as he looked at the social worker, it was better that way. That was better than someone like this woman taking a personal interest in him, looking disappointed like she had when he had been fresh to her about heading back to the Youth Cottages.

"You'll be able to keep your car, at least," she said, and he jerked himself back to reality, taking a quick sip of the soda. "The Masons said it was OK if you kept the car. They'll keep on making payments if you need. You'll be able to keep it, and the good news is, you'll start a new school year there, so you won't have to get caught up in classes. You'll have passed tenth grade, anyway." She paused, as if wanting to hold back the words, but they came out anyway. "Barely. Why you hold yourself back like that, I don't know, James. You're a smart kid. You could get straight As if you wanted, and not with a lot of work, too."

He chuckled. He didn't feel happy, though. "If I applied myself, right? Hell with that." He leaned in close towards her. "Tell the Masons thanks for the car, but I'll make payments from here on out. It's my car now, and I ain't gonna have them treatin' me like a damn charity case."

"Why? You'll have to work a lot to pay for that car. And with your school records…" She trailed off, shaking her head. She didn't like his decision. "That's not too bright of you, James. You know that. We both know that."

He couldn't explain it to her, really, but something in the idea of them continuing to pay for the car stung him. They cared just enough about him that they didn't want to completely screw him over, but not enough to want to keep a kid who wasn't even a pothead – it had only been one joint, not even anything big, and he hadn't been speeding; it was a busted tail-light on the car that they suddenly wanted to buy for him.

"Yeah, well, if I was bright, I wouldn't be a C student, would I? Maybe I ain't half as smart as you think." He grinned, satisfied, liked the way that her face shifted to doubt, realization, and then tight-jawed anger. That made him happier than the charity he didn't deserve. He felt his grin grow broad and took a sip of his soda, rattling the ice just to annoy her. He felt cocky again. He didn't feel scared anymore. He was only scared when people gave a damn, and he hoped that she didn't anymore.

––

He hedges the Latina off with a few half-explanations, a few curses, but she's not buying it. From the way she stares at him, he can't help but think she knows more than she's letting on. They all do. All of them know what's going on but him, probably. That'd be a hell of a thing. All of them in on the joke, and him left out of it, some elaborate scam made to make him look like some damn fool. He wishes that were the case. It would be a hell of a lot easier that way. He would be able to deal with it better, and it wouldn't be quite so frightening to consider. He could function if he knew he was the punch-line to some elaborate joke. He could deal with that. The way things have gone, though, he feels weird, like his insides have been hollowed out and replaced with something liquid and soft.

"Give me one good reason why I should tell you the rest of it," he says, and he eyes the pocketknife she's still got, thinking, _There's one good reason that I hope doesn't come to pass._

"I've got a pretty good one," she replies, confident. That damn smirk still on her face. "You need to tell someone, and," she continues, the smirk widening, "you know that I won't give you some sort of phony line about anything."

He can feel the shock that he's sure shows on his face, the dazed loss of control that means that anything he says has to be the truth for at least a few seconds, until his muscles relax, his face settles, and his brains come back. He half-grins, letting his face slide into a neutral expression. "Either I tell you or you punch me, right? Ain't no way you're winnin' friends with that attitude."

She looks pissed again. He feels better about that. "I didn't say that. All I said is that, I know that there's more to how you freaked out than just, you don't like the computer and you think that they're screwing with us. We all know that." Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step forward. Her hand goes for her side, as if reaching for a gun. She hasn't got one. Realizing that, she thrusts out the pocketknife towards him, blade-first.

He takes it carefully, avoiding the blade, snaps it closed. "So why're you askin' me, if you know everything?"

Ana-Lucia's words are careful. To him, they sound practiced. He wonders if she's rehearsed the phrase, because it comes out way too neatly: "I'm asking you, because I know there's more to the story. You kill 'em?"

The question is so casually posed that it catches him by surprise, and Sawyer jerks his head down in a nod before he can catch himself. He can't let on that he was caught by surprise, though, so he mumbles, "Yeah. Two of them. For all the trouble you guys had with them…" _I thought they'd have killed me far more quickly, instead of me getting the drop on them,_ he thinks, but he can't say that. Instead, he just shrugs at that, trailing off. "Well. That's not important."

The smirk is gone now, a stiff expression replacing it. "It _is_ important. It means that, if we try, we can get them. We ran into one, too," she explains suddenly, as if trading his truth-telling for a bit of her own, "or something. It wasn't like those guys back at the, uh, warehouse." He thinks it's funny that she uses the same term for the place as he does. They both avoid worse words for it, because that would mean they'd have to acknowledge it for what it is. "I don't think he understood us. We just let him go, because Sayid said that it wouldn't be any good to keep him, because he – the guy we caught – would never understand what we were saying enough to be of any use."

"Probably," he begins, but he can't put it into words. Not in a way that she would understand. He knows what it was, though, what they ran into. It must have been something that they let loose, something imperfect, something that they'd sent through their machines that they couldn't quite advance, and had tossed out, eternally fucked up, to live out the rest of its days in the wilderness, like some sort of lab rat or guinea pig tossed into the trash. It could have been him, he realizes, and the shock of that nearly makes him reel. He digs his booted feet into the sand, places a hand onto the canvas that holds the food.

She might be sympathetic. He doesn't know. He can't look at her. He can't look at anyone. His face feels tight, and he thinks he might be sick to his stomach. Damn island food and then the beer. That'll do anyone's stomach. That's what it is. It isn't what he just realized, what he almost became, what they kept him from becoming, because that would be stupid, and he isn't that stupid.

"Probably what?" she asks. Her voice is urgent, and she moves until she's in his field of view. Whatever concern she might have exhibited for at least a split second has been replaced by a demanding curiosity. "Probably what, Sawyer? What _was_ that?"

Sawyer doesn't want to tell her. He doesn't want to tell anyone. He doesn't want them to know, especially not her, because she's liable to go take a rifle and go stalking back to the place to go all Patty Hearst on them. He can see it now, and he wants to avoid it, for their own safety if not hers, because whatever she'd do would bring down hell on the camp.

Not just that, too. He wants to keep them all from knowing until he wants them to know, until he can use it for some leverage, until there's a purpose to telling them beyond just telling them. He lets out a shaky breath, though, and he begins to explain to her, because, like she said, she won't tell. Ana-Lucia's got a big mouth, but she's not a gossip. Not about things like this. He knows women enough to know that, and as much of a hardass as she is, he's still got her pegged anyway. It's not that bad of a risk, compared to some people he could name.

So he tells her everything that he knows, from when he left the hatch to when they ran into him, and some stuff they don't even know about that. He gives her as many details as he can, hoping they'll be of some use in the long run, now that there's a second person who knows them besides himself. He talks for a good half-hour, and he's shocked that nobody else comes upon them, but that's OK, because that means that he doesn't have to have even more people aware of what's going on. And it surprises him, but telling someone doesn't feel as bad as he'd hoped.


	13. Quite Ugly One Morning

**XIII: Quite Ugly One Morning**

Next to them, the fire is dead. It has gone out sometime in the past few hours, but Hurley seems fascinated with it, the ashes the source of apparently constant entertainment. Stick in hand, Hurley keeps poking at the fire, mounding it into little haphazard ashy shapes that collapse only seconds after they are formed, and all Sayid can think is, _He should find better materials for his art. Perhaps he should ask Michael what to use._

Hurley's dedication to his art has not kept him from asking questions, so far. "How long were you in the Guard?" The young man's voice is curious. They have spent the past hour talking about Sayid's service, but the Iraqi doesn't mind. Better to let the conversation flow naturally at the start than try to force it in a specific direction. "You joined the Iraqi military at… twenty-two?"

"Twenty." Sayid sees confusion on Hurley's face and takes a guess at its source. "I was seventeen when I went to Cairo University. I spent three years there. In the rest of the world, people graduate college earlier than Americans do." The two of them are seated on the beach, Hurley occasionally toying with the remnants of the fire. Perimeters have been checked, and Sayid intends to salvage more parts for the truck later. There are many things to be done, though, and having the chat he promised with Hurley is the start of his chores list.

"So you spent a long time there. Nine years?" Sayid nods. Hurley wants to ask a question, clearly, but thinks better of it. Sayid motions him to continue, and the younger man does so gingerly, as if afraid to say anything. "I mean, if you were in the Republican Guard, how could you spend ten years there and not move past an interrogator's rank?"

"The _As Saiqa_ did not have much rank movement." Had he heard this from anyone else, not knowing the situation of the guard, he would have believed it a lie, but Sayid knew that, regarding himself, it was the truth. The fact that he hadn't advanced was not his own fault.

In fact, he'd had a good record, both as a member of the _Adnan_ infantry division and later as part of the interrogation corps of _As Saiqa_. Any officer looking over his record would have been surprised at his achievements and ability but, after being surprised, they would have seen no need to promote him in rank. As the years had passed and nobody had promoted him further from his interrogations, too, that only made him look worse, because if he had not been promoted by twenty-five, twenty-six, surely there must have been something wrong with him.

The ashes shift. Hurley is toying with them again, growing impatient. He can wait a moment, though, because Sayid is lost in his thoughts for the moment, caught up in consideration of his own past.

Was it his father's fault? He suspects even now that this might be the case – the great war hero turned supporter of a colonel who had become head of defense and then had been forced out in the coup of 1968. Although his father had survived the shifting loyalties with most of his ties and possessions intact, perhaps the political taint ran deeper than he had realized. Perhaps that was what had cost Sayid a promotion in the later years of his service with the Republican Guard. Then again, the Guard had never quite looked at him as easily in those days as they had before he had become an interrogator. Nobody trusted interrogators, because they all had secrets of their own they did not want revealed. Sayid had been familiar with that sort of wariness, but he had never liked the standoffishness it lent his fellow soldiers, or the coldness with which they sometimes treated him.

"Besides," Sayid continues, knowing he's drifted off in thought and not wanting to lose Hurley in his considerations, "there were less promotions needed during a time of relative peace." It seems strange to think of his country having been peaceful during the Nineties, when so much was happening in Iraq, but it must have seemed peaceful to the Americans, and he cannot imagine that Hurley was politically astute enough to pay particular attention before the war with the Americans began anew.

Hurley smiles at that, although it's a more pacifying smile than Sayid would have liked to see. "Yeah, I guess you're right. My buddy who fought in the war, anyway, said that you guys didn't have a lot of formation to your troops. He said that you were more…" Hurley pauses a moment, offering an apologetic smile, "disorganized than the American troops."

"That is because the American troops did not look closely enough at the Iraqi troops, and they assumed all were strictly military." Sayid explains, but stops short. He did not invite Hurley to talk only about military theory, and he leans in forward towards Hurley, his eyes on the young man. 'There is something I wanted to discuss with you, though, if you don't mind. There are a few things I want to know. First, I want to know why you were out there in the woods. Secondly, I want to know how you knew to find us out there."

He pauses, half for effect and half to draw a breath. During the pause, he searches Hurley's face for any change of expression, but sees nothing to give away what he has already figured out. That surprises him. Either he has outthought the young man far more quickly than Hurley had expected, or Hurley simply made an honest mistake. He would prefer the latter option, but he must press on.

Nearby them, the waves settle on the beach, and Sayid looks that way to see what the tides have caught. He can only hope to produce results as well as the beaches dredge up wildlife from beneath the waves. He gets Hurley's attention, holds it for a moment, until he is sure that the young man will not look away as soon as he starts talking, and then proceeds.

"There is one more thing. The last thing I want to know is how you knew I had only been in the Republican Guard for nine years." He smiles grimly, feeling the tightness of the expression and knowing that it looks worse. "You know I served in the Gulf War. So why not estimate a time closer to a decade and a half?"

Hurley's eyes widen. "Dude," he exclaims, his expression shocked. "I didn't think – I mean – " He stammers, unable to find the proper words, and now he _does_ look away from Sayid, back towards the dying campfire.

_This conversation is going to turn ugly all too soon,_ Sayid thinks. He seizes the advantage, though, speaking up again. His voice is sharp now, and it again causes the young man to look back his way. "Hurley, what were you doing out there in the forest and how did you know to run into us? You knew I would ask," he adds, feeling as if he must excuse the question to at least some degree. It must be asked, but asking it does not please him. There is no satisfaction to it, as there might have been in a question that would merit only positive results. There is only a strange feeling, not of being betrayed by Hurley's possible lies, but by being the betrayer by asking the Californian to reveal his untruths.

Hurley stammers for another moment, shaking his head. At last he scrapes his hair away, watching Sayid closely. "I went out there – I followed you guys. You left tracks."

Sayid's voice is flat. "But it rained."

"Not there. You know how weird the weather is here." Hurley looks back towards the dead fire, as if he can get some sort of facts from it. "I went out a while after you guys. I wanted to see where you were going."

He can taste the air in his mouth, a salty taste. He hopes it is the ocean that has made him thirsty, not the sudden rush of adrenaline that the conversation has brought upon him. He chides himself to be careful, watching the waves rush in and out for a moment, letting the wound-up feeling settle. He cannot give in to that feeling, and he is pleased to note that he can successfully resist it. When he speaks, his voice is even and deliberate:

"I'm afraid you left no footprints. If the rain had existed, Hurley, do you think that it would have washed out the footprints?" Initially, he does not give the younger man a chance to respond. "You say that the rain did not fall in that area, though. Which falsehood do you want to tell me, Hurley? When you have decided which it is, be sure to tell me."

He must be careful. If Hurley will do something with the information, then there is a waiting period that stretches before him now, one that he does not want to expedite by directing matters. If his suspicions are proved true, then theoretically he should not have to do anything. He hopes that is not true, but he must give Hurley the opportunity to make a choice. He stands from nearby the ash pile, gazing down at the younger man in what he suspects is an appropriately impassive fashion.

"I have things to be done, but I trust you can find me on your own." He almost adds, _You're too good at that for your own good, it seems,_ but says nothing of the sort. Instead, he watches Hurley. The young man is staring into the dead fire, apparently unable to look Sayid in the face now.

He must offer Hurley no opportunity to end the situation, though. He must let the young man make his own choice, as a few hours before he let Charlie make his own choice. Is this how the rest of his own time on the island is to be spent, as a mentor? He doesn't particularly like the feel of it. Anything he can teach them, they can learn on their own, and he is not sure they would appreciate the lessons anyway. He can only let them teach themselves.

"I hope you will indeed find me, Hurley."

"I – sure I will," Hurley agrees. "Sometime. When I can."

_Can,_ Sayid thinks, noting the specific construction of the sentence. Something is preventing Hurley from telling the truth, something that the young man feels he cannot control.

Hurley has also not turned back towards him. Whatever falsehood he is telling, Sayid can tell from that, it must be very important. By extension, there is a good degree of importance to the reason that Hurley was out in the jungle, did not leave footprints – because he was placed there? By whom? The main option is unthinkable, although Sayid is gradually finding it easier to consider. Whatever Hurley has done, whatever he hopes to hide, must be something extremely damaging.

Whatever is making Hurley lie, he wants to find out, and he hopes Hurley will tell him. He cannot force the matter, though. He cannot take the risk with what could be crucial information. He must tend to the truck, and the computer, and it is enough that Hurley knows he's been caught. It had better be.


	14. Looking for the Next Best Thing

**XIV: Looking for the Next Best Thing**

He could stay there and talk further with her, explain the situation to her point by point, at a length that would grow increasingly irritating and will anger him more and more. There would be no point to it, though, after he's given her the facts. On some question or other, he would be forced to argue, to become angry, and finally to say something that would either make her hit him or make him feel like he had to walk off before he hits her instead, and he isn't up for that today.

So she wins, and Sawyer stalks off, realizing that not only has he lost to Ana-Lucia for the second time since he's met her, but he has also irritated her again, fallen into the same pattern he always does. Not something he can chalk down in the 'win' column. _Even if you're nice, even if you try to tell people the truth, it makes no difference._

He doesn't need to turn around to tell that she is standing there behind him, incensed. He can tell from her stillness, the fact that no footsteps follow in his peripheral vision, and that the noise of snapping sticks and rattling brush comes to him as she stalks off into the woods somewhere. What could he have said, though, that wouldn't have angered her? How is he supposed to answer all these questions that he doesn't know? She wants answers which he can't give her. They all do. He can't get into that situation.

After a few more moments of deliberately heading away from Ana-Lucia, the truck sits there before him, all but abandoned on the path towards the. Mohammed was supposed to ask him to get parts for it. Guess not. He had a girlfriend when he was in high school who liked seeing lots of movies, and he saw this movie once with her, supposedly famous. Something made by that melting-clocks guy, Dali, about Andalusia. He doesn't remember much of it – it was all too weird for him, and there weren't any good lines to quote – but the last shot has stuck with him. It's of a desert, and there's a man and woman there. They're buried in sand up to their chests, and their clothes are all beat up, and they've been torn to pieces by the landscape, insects, God knows what.

_That's what Sayid's truck will look like in a few months, if we're still here then,_ he thinks, and then he has to repress a shiver at the next, all-too-obvious thought: _That's what_ we'll _look like, too._ The image isn't something he wants to dwell on, but just like everything else he doesn't want to think about, it lodges itself firmly in his brain at just that very moment. Funny how that works. Maybe he should have taken the offered lobotomy.

Maybe Sayid doesn't want to work on the truck. Having it working means they ought to use it, and using it means they have to travel back the way they just came from, and people here are so damn determined not to do anything useful that asking them to do that's probably just about a suicide mission. They won't do that. They're not the bravest bunch, and he curses his luck again at getting stuck with a crew of cowards as he climbs into the truck, sprawling on the seat.

It feels good to get back into a driver's seat again. He feels like he has some control, some ability to do what he wants to do, a means to determine what happens to him from here on out. All that just because he's sitting in a truck that can't be driven anywhere. It's stupid, sure, but it works.

Just as he thinks that, though, his head starts to hurt again. He didn't _think_ he banged it getting into the truck. He doesn't think Ana-Lucia whacked him on the head, either, though he wouldn't have put it past her. He's not sure why it's still hurting, and his hand goes to the nape of his neck, searching gingerly. Nothing there.

What had he expected to find? He wonders what Dr. Jack Kevorkian would find if they had real medical machines here, an X-ray or something, but tries his damnedest to focus. Whatever's causing the headaches, he can't do a damn thing about it, just like he couldn't do a damn thing about the computer. Kick back and let the headaches run their course, instead.

The truck is comfortable, compared to hanging out on the beach, and although his head is still hurting, he stretches out and manages to relax. He just woke up, but he's already tired. Doing nothing does that to him. He knows that from experience, from weeks spent drying out from drink and con games at some cheap Southern motel, afraid to go out of the place unless he was recognized, but not creative enough to do anything but put his feet up on the bed and watch TV. He feels the same way now – he can't leave the camp, but he can't be any help here, and he may as well nap.

He doesn't get the chance. Just as he's about to check out for sleep, he hears footsteps crunching through the brush towards him, coming from nearer the water. He figures they'll head towards the hatch, but they don't. They stop at the truck.

"Whaddaya want?" He's not going to expend the effort of getting up if he doesn't have to. Sudden movement would make his head hurt. He doesn't want to bring that upon himself.

"Just checking on you." Kate is leaning against the truck, her posture casual. She smiles brightly at him as he pushes himself up to a sitting position gingerly, and then starts laughing.

He can't figure out why. There's no reason. "What?" he snaps at her.

She sobers, shaking her head. "Your hair, Sawyer. You look awful." She's said that once before, and, as if recalling the time, she grows further serious, her voice showing what he assumes is concern. It's hard to tell, with her. "How are you feeling?" she continues. "Any better?"

"I _was_, until someone woke me up." He opens the door and slithers out of the truck, booted feet hitting the dirt, and leans against the ajar door, Kate on the other side of the entrance to the truck cab. The two stand there for a moment, Kate apparently content with the lack of conversation, but Sawyer feels like he has to say something sooner rather than later, and he licks his lips, gives her a sly grin, and continues: "So, Calamity Jane, what can I do you for?"

She almost responds, but catches herself, spotting his own turn of phrase. She punches him lightly on the arm, and if he didn't know her better, if he wasn't aware that everything she did was intended as a flirt, he'd have been surprised at the sudden friendliness. Her arm drops, and she straightens against the door frame, turning so that she can look him in the eye a little more easily. There's even more seriousness in her tone when she speaks, and he's not entirely sure how to take this. "I was going to ask how you're doing, but I guess you're doing all right, aren't you? Same as ever." Her voice sounds disappointed at that, although he can't really place why he hears that tone.

"Yeah," Sawyer responds. "Doin' fine." He glances towards the beach and sees a short, olive-skinned figure start towards them. _I may have to retract the statement,_ he realizes. Sayid is heading towards the truck, staring at both of them. He does not look happy. He doesn't look angry, either. He looks businesslike, and the expression isn't one Sawyer particularly appreciates. He lets his voice slip into a drawl. "Well, well, if it ain't Ra's al-Ghul, out of the Lazarus Pit for once." He motions towards the hatch, to connote the joke. He scarcely expects to get a smile from it. "Am I not supposed to touch the truck anymore? Off limits to infidels?" His eyes flick towards Kate, but she's as confused about the situation as he is.

Sayid stalks up towards him, the coiled tenseness reminding Sawyer of an animal about to strike. No attack comes, though the possibility for it is definitely there. Kate stands nearby, watching, wary. Sayid looks towards her, giving her a little shake of the head as if to tell her not to worry. She doesn't. Sawyer follows her cue, and doesn't relax either.

The Iraqi remarks, "You wanted to discuss my past, Sawyer? You want to know something about my time in the Guard? All right. Now is your chance. But you'll tell me first what you were thinking by enlisting Charlie to break that computer – in my presence, no less."

Sawyer shakes his head. "I didn't," he lies, but it doesn't sound believable even to him. "All right. I did. Happy? But I didn't tell him to go there while you were there. That was his own damn fool decision." He thinks, _Maybe if I had spared another cigarette for Charlie, he wouldn't have been so stupid about the mission._ He doesn't explain that to Sayid, though. Instead, he shakes his head, repeating to Sayid, "The computer's no good, Sayid. It's not." He draws a deep breath, glancing towards Kate. The fact that she's in on this doesn't sit that well with him, but from the look on Sayid's face, if he doesn't explain things now, he may not get a second chance to say anything. "The computers are bad, Sayid. All of it. We're bein' watched down there. I can prove it. And that computer's like the wheel in a hamster cage – somethin' to keep us occupied."

Kate's eyes widen at that, and she interrupts whatever reply could have been given to observe, "Jack was right."

The idea of that galls Sawyer. Her scowls at Kate, not acknowledging her read of the situation. Of I_course_/I Jack was right. Jack is always right. Of course Kate decides to mention it just at the wrong moment.

"So instead of deciding to inform me of why the computer was bad, you figured that it would be a better idea just to crush the computer into pieces. I see." Sayid's voice holds the semblance of a lecture, even without giving it. Sawyer bristles at that, but doesn't get the chance to reply. "And now you want to know something about my past that you think you can use. Why should I tell you, when you've shown such admirable command of apparently classified information thus far?"

If he weren't already annoyed at Kate's pointing out just how correct Jack's thoughts about the hatch were, Sawyer would definitely be angry now. As it is, his head is starting to buzz again, and he's not sure if it's from the headache or from how angry he is at the whole thing. "Look, Sayid," he begins, "I ain't asked you to apologize to me. All I want to know is what happened to that damn journalist that you asked me about. What happened? You kill him?" His voice echoes Ana-Lucia's words of a few hours ago, and that startles him. All conversations on this island move in circles, he realizes.

Kate stares, lost, but undeniably curious. Her mouth hangs open at that last statement, and when she realizes it, it snaps shut. She too glances towards Sayid, but says nothing. Sawyer has spent many times listening to the wildlife on this island, losing himself in the sounds, but everything is quiet now. It's almost eerie, if he were afraid of just the quietness. He's not. At least if it's quiet, he can pretend nobody's listening. This silence, though, is different. Flatter, somehow. He makes a 'go on' motion towards Sayid, and thinks, _There's a saying there, about interrogating the interrogator. Or there should be, anyway._

The Iraqi's face is impassive, expressionless, evaluating Sawyer's question for a long moment. "I was not the one who pulled the trigger," he says slowly, and Sawyer doesn't think that's a lie. Sayid doesn't lie well, like he told the guy before. "But I did see him die." He looks up towards Sawyer. "Who was he to you, Sawyer? A relative? Is that why you were from the same town?"

"City," Sawyer corrects sharply. "And no, he wasn't family." He shakes his head, feeling anger build again. He has to do something. He has to punch something, or yell at someone, but he can't do any of that now. Barred from his usual resources, he stands there, feeling like some damn kid about to throw a temper tantrum. "He and I knew each other since I was a kid, though." He feels the anger rush through him, run out his fingertips where he's moved to clutch the door frame of the truck, and shakes his head slowly. His next words surprise him. "Thanks for killing him, though."

It's twisted, to be saying that. He knows it. From the look on Sayid's face, he can tell that to anyone else, it may sound strange. Somehow, Kate's figured out some of it, though, and she nods slowly. He realizes: _She's figured out the letter._ He isn't sure how to feel about that. He wasn't when she found it, either.

"You are welcome, Sawyer. I'm not sure why I say that about an admitted killing," Sayid admits, and for the second time in a short while, Sawyer hears uncertainty in the other man's voice. He relishes it just as much this time, too, and can't resist a grin. Seeing that, Sayid seems to have reached a decision. He extends a hand towards Sawyer for a handshake, the gesture seeming foreign to the foreigner. "Now, are we on the same page?"

_Not in the slightest,_ Sawyer thinks. "Sure, we are," he lies, and sees an approving nod from the young woman nearby. "Lemme show you what's up with the hatch. Both of you, if you want."

For a moment, he thinks Sayid is about to make the same offer. He can't imagine what the Iraqi has figured out about the hatch that he hasn't, though, and he offers Sayid a conciliatory smile, backing away from the truck and starting for the Hatch. He's not sure if either of the others will follow, but he doesn't care. He's more struck by the fact that he's all right with this. He'd wanted to kill the guy that brought about his parents' murder himself, but he supposes that meeting the guy's killer is the next best thing.


	15. Basket Case

**XV: Basket Case**

Kelvin talks too much. For all that the fellow has said, there's probably details enough for the crew over at the camp to figure out what's going on, and that will be trouble indeed. There isn't a thing to be done about it, though, only sit on your hands and wait for trouble to come to you. That's what they were told. They're not to disrupt anything.

Desmond thinks that they've disrupted enough already, but telling this to Kelvin will not merit a pleased reaction from the American. It would be about as bad as reminding Marvin that the woman at the camp has decided to turn traitor. Some things you don't say, in order to save your own skin, and those are two things he promises himself he'll avoid blurting out.

He means to avoid Kelvin for a while, anyway. Even though it wasn't the redhead's body that he had run across in the jungle, the potential of the man dying, while it rattled him at first, is starting to look better and better. There is nothing that the man does at which he could not be replaced.

The same goes for himself, Desmond is quite aware. They are not the focus of this, never were, never will be. If he were to just inject Kelvin with a little too much serum one day, nobody would know the difference. Nobody would care. They would just write it off as another casualty in the theater of operations – he can hear those specific words now from his superiors – and roll with the punches. It is an intriguing possibility. It is one that he gives due consideration.

There are more important things than killing off one's coworker simply because you dislike them, though, and he has to get those important things done. Each day since the castaways landed has been a checklist, a routine, and he's used to routine, but he didn't like it being disturbed by the newcomers, even though he'd known it would happen. Everything's gone topsy-turvy, and he knows whose fault it is. Nobody else does except Kelvin, but the redhead doesn't care quite as much. He just doesn't want to see the boy released. There's no level of inquiry to his watch with the boy, and that is downright infuriating.

As a result, since arriving at the nerve center of the island, Desmond has tried to get a shift with the boy instead. Schedules have been shuffled, and today, thank God, is finally his chance to speak with the kid. He is looking forward to it. The boy has gone too long without conversation, and he does feel somewhat sympathetic on that count. If he finds out anything about the kid, so much the better. He won't press the issue, though. All he wants is a conversation with the kid first. He should befriend the kid. If he befriends him, then perhaps the boy will tell them something useful.

They've kept Walter in the containment cells since they took him, and part of him wonders: Should they let the boy out? Should they explain to him what's going on, try to use his abilities for their own resources? They have no record of him doing anything since they've brought him here, and in a way that's disappointing. Perhaps they should tell him things. Perhaps they should give him a chance. He briefly entertains the idea, and then decides against it. Kelvin would think nothing of dispatching of both him and the boy, and as much as he relishes the idea of getting the better of Kelvin, even for a moment, he doesn't like the necessary end result.

108-B comes up alongside, and he draws up next to the door, staring at the young figure within. _The Irish are the blacks of Europe,_ goes through his head, and he feels at least a little more solidarity with the kid. Funny, that. He doesn't think the boy will understand, but at least he feels a little more kindly towards the kid.

Kelvin says that the boy is monitored, that the boy has connections hooked up to him, but Desmond knows that's not the truth. They are just keeping the boy alive in case something goes wrong with the copy. They have no interest in prying apart layers of the kid's mind. That disappoints him.

He knocks on the pane to alert the boy of his presence, and then presses his thumb to the scanner, waiting until it acknowledges him and permits him to pass through and into the containment room. He has a little while. Kelvin has gotten called to a lecture with Candle, and from what Desmond knows about both men, the American can expect to be there a while discussing things, with all due menace the discussion implies.

The light atop the door turns on, going from black and unlit to white and lit, and he swings the door open, heading into the room. The boy looks up towards him, staring at him quite openly for a moment. He's quite a sight, it seems, and he tries to mollify the situation by smiling, feeling the tenseness on his own face. "You're Walt, or Walter," he tells the boy. _I've never known a Walter under eighty._ "I hope you don't mind a chat? Won't take ages."

The boy stares at him defiantly for a moment, as if perfectly willing to tell him just how much he would mind a chat, but for whatever reason, decides not to say this. "N-nah," the adolescent says, trying to be casual. "Can you get some more books? I've read the interesting ones. I like comic books. Got any of those?"

Desmond thinks, _I had some at the hatch, before it was overtaken._ A brief pang of despair for that, at the thought of the test subjects going through all his belongings, but he tries to cover it up, especially when the boy fixes him with a close, assessing look. He wonders if the boy can read his mind, before deciding that such must be foolishness. "I'm afraid we're fresh out a' comic books today, but I'll tell you what: You have a yarn with me, and I'll see if I can get you some on the next supply plane, huh?"

Walt draws himself up onto the adult-sized chair that they've given him, hugging his knees to his chin. "If there's supply planes, then we can go home. Why don't you get my dad, and we can go home?"

"We've tried to do just that," Desmond replies, pitying the boy, well aware it shows through in his voice. It wasn't right to place the kid in the middle of this situation. His father and he should have been given a way out, when they were on that raft, even if that meant taking the Korean and the supreme annoyance of dragging along the Southerner as well. "You'll be goin' home soon, Walt, you and your old man. We just haveta make sure it's safe. Supply planes can get here, right, but it's savage dangerous to bring a bigger plane in here. It can get blown off course all too easily." He knows nothing about airplanes, and he hopes that the boy knows nothing either.

Walt nods once, accepting the explanation. Not even a single flicker of suspicion crosses his face. "All right," he decides. "As long as my dad and I get home." His words have a strange maturity to them, and that throws Desmond for a moment. The boy stares past Desmond for a moment, looking towards the door and then back to the Irishman. "My dad's all right, though?"

"Sure, he is," Desmond responds, fixing Walt with a serious look. He wants the boy to know that his father is safe. They don't need to put the kid through any more trouble, at least as long as it's undeserved. "If your man wasn't all right, we'd let you know, lad, and it wouldn't do us any good to kill him anyway. That'd be a right mess."

The boy tenses at that, rather than being relieved as expected. "You're keeping him alive for something?" His face shows that he's drawing conclusions he doesn't quite have the presence of mind or vocabulary to voice. "He's going to be all right?" he all but repeats, but it's a slightly different question. He hops down from the chair, pacing towards the door. It's open, and he looks out towards the hallway. He doesn't run, though. He knows better than that, it seems, and Desmond is pleased to see that the boy has some level of intelligence where things like that are concerned. That way, if he does have to be freed counter to Kelvin's instructions, at least he can be trusted to keep quiet. "Because if he gets hurt…"

There's a threat there. Desmond wonders about that. The boy has been kept in hiding since his capture, and has made no move to strike out against them. He had thought that was just because he couldn't, but now the idea comes: What if Walt can? What if he's just biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to strike? He should tell Kelvin. He should inform his bosses about what the kid is saying, and he should waste no time in so doing. He resolves to do nothing of the sort, however. The boy deserves at least a fair chance, and he cannot believe that Kelvin will give him that.

"Your da won't be hurt," he responds after a moment to think things over. "We have your man there to make sure of that."

"Mr. Locke?"

_Locke, John. Age forty-six. Status: Participant. The one on whom I held a gun in the hatch. The one who actually believed me about the button._ He considers for a moment what the man could have said to make the boy suspicious of him. They had been told that the fellow was strange, but if he is unconsciously jeopardizing things, he had better be put on the short list as well. For now, though, he just smiles and shakes his head. "Fair play. But it's not Mr. Locke, no."

Walt's brows draw together, confused. "So he's OK then? Or isn't he?" He sighs after a moment, as if the question of Locke is too much bother to figure out, and from what Desmond has heard, he can't blame Walt for so doing. Walt picks up the book he's been reading, and nods Desmond towards the door. "Bring me comic books?" he asks before he goes back to his reading, clearly having dismissed the conversation. Desmond nods after a moment and starts for the door. _I didn't get anything,_ he thinks, _except the boy's trust._ And that, he suspects, will be worth a lot in the days to come.


	16. A Certain Girl

**XVI: A Certain Girl**

A long shadow darkened their path, and he motioned her to silence. She gave him a sharp look, glaring first at him, and then at the adult which approached. It would make a scene, he knew, from the way she stood at odds with him, her robes pulled to strange angles by the distinctly foreign position of her hands on her hips. She wanted to prove her point, and the vans that awaited to escort them home from school would simply have to wait, it seemed. At least she unfolded her arms, showed deference, looked away from him and towards the ground. Having stopped for a moment, the teacher seemingly decided to move on.

"It's not true, Sayid." Nadia's disagreement was open again. "No matter what. Khuzistan won't revolt against the Ayatollah." Her arms folded again. "And if you think so, you're stupider than I thought."

He winced at that, shook his head at her folded arms, but she ignored him. He hadn't expected otherwise. "And Qasr-e Shirin?" he asked. "The skirmishes, and the treaty that's been…" He drew a breath, waited for another teacher to pass, giving the man a deferential nod and a murmured greeting before continuing, "… broken. We're in trouble for that, aren't we?"

She nodded solemnly. He hadn't expected otherwise. She watched the teacher disappear past Sayid, her eyes moving back towards him to alert him that the teacher was gone. "We're in a lot of trouble for that," she confirmed. "My politics teacher says that it is a smart thing to have done. Whenever my politics teacher says that, I know that it is the stupidest thing that could possibly have been done."

He wished he was in the class. For the past year, however, the imams had not allowed him to join the higher classes. They said that, at thirteen, he was not ready for the classes that were taught the older teenagers, and that frustrated him. He wanted to learn what Nadia was learning. He was smart enough to do it, and he knew it. The additional knowledge that he would have to wait another few years to take the class rankled, but at least he had Nadia here to tell him all about it. It was almost as good as taking the course. _When I do take it, it will be far less interesting without her._

"What will you do in a few years, Sayid?" Nadia continued, gazing at him. There was something off about her gaze, a strange calculation, but he could not specifically place it, or quite understand why it made him nervous. She hesitated, and he glanced towards where she was staring to see the vans pull out. They would have to walk home. He looked back towards her, and was relieved at the lack of disappointment. She had another point to make, however, and she leaned into it, her eyes on him. "You will be old enough to enroll in the military then. Will you do that, or will you go to university?"

He hadn't considered the military before. He'd always seen himself going to university, possibly in the sciences, alongside her, and he was certain that she would attend classes in politics. He did not know where they would go, but he was certain that they would be on the same campus. In a way, it startled him that she saw him as a soldier, repulsed him to some extent. He was certain that he looked embarrassed, and forced a smile onto his face to cover it.

She didn't buy the act, simply shaking her head in a gesture that he knew was calculated to make his foolishness even more apparent. "No, Sayid," she said simply, and that deflated him; he slouched a little.

His words came slowly, painfully. "I think I would dislike the military, Nadia," he began, shifting from foot to foot, feeling like an idiotic child who couldn't talk properly all of a sudden. He was, he imagined. "I don't think I would make a good soldier. Of course, if the Ba'athists demanded it of me, I would do it, but I don't think I'm suited for it."

She shook her head, and he wondered: _Must she prove me wrong on everything?_ "I think you would make a good soldier," she countered, and he caught a note of sadness, maybe even disappointment, in her voice. "I think if you had to, you would be a fine soldier, and I think that you know that as well as I do."

He did indeed, and that realization disappointed him. He started walking, expecting her to follow, and she did, quickening her pace so she could catch up with him easily, her stride taller and longer. She had grown a head taller in the past year, it seemed. Her stride sounded next to him for a few moments before she spoke again, adding, "I think that you would be a good soldier, because I think you're brighter than most soldiers, at least from what I hear. I think that it would be a good thing, being too smart for the job."

_That's where you're wrong. If I'm smarter than the other soldiers are, then I would more easily realize that the wars had no point,_ he thought. _Like my father did._ He did not say that, however, instead shrugging over her words and accepting them with a casual, "If you say so."

They walked along like that for a few more minutes, and he gazed around at the shops around them, bustling with merchants and customers alike. The day was starting to cool down, so more people were out at this time than they had been an hour ago, and he wondered if he could stay in the district more, rather than head immediately home. He had orders from his father, however, and they were that he should not dawdle. Each time he had broken that rule in the past, he had gotten in trouble, and he suspected, with the broken treaty, his father would again be suspect to the Ba'athists. If only he hadn't stayed with ad-Da'ud, and had decided to be a good military man as well. That way, he could stand a better chance at indeed staying an academic.

Nadia's voice again broke into his thoughts. "What are you thinking about, Sayid?" He offered her a small smile, but didn't respond. Seeing that, she sighed. "If you don't want to be a soldier, you don't have to be. You can be whatever you want, and you don't have to listen to me, or your father, or anyone."

He wished she was telling the truth.


	17. Wanted Dead or Alive

**XVII: Wanted Dead or Alive**

He figured he was drunk on every major fuckup he made in his life, except for the last one – and that wasn't even his own fault. That was the fault of Hibbs, of Duckett for being there, of that bastard in the bar drinking to him and telling him his sob story about how he used to be a doctor, like he wanted to hear that crap.

And so he was stuck in some county jail on the island of convicts – what did they call counties here in Australia anyway? Sydney was a lousy city, all of it fake, the only thing it had going for it that stupid opera house. Not that he was a fan of opera, but he remembered the place. He used to have a picture of that in a Viewmaster in the Cottages. But whatever good Sydney was, the outskirts where he'd found the bar and Duckett, where he'd turned into a murderer, were ten times worse. The place had a sticky, clingy, clammy feel, and he hated it, couldn't wait to get out.

That was probably why they had decided to arrest him, too. If it had been for murder, he would have gone along willingly. Instead, it was some dumb scrap in a bar with some suited jackass whom he later found out was the minister of something-or-other (but really, who cared what?) Stupid bastard had decided to pick a fight with him, so he got what he deserved. But he, Sawyer, didn't deserve this. He deserved to either be in jail and paying for his sins, or out again and running from them. This waiting game was bullshit.

He knew they weren't going to look up his record in the States. It was just some stupid bar fight, even if it did happen to be with a VIP, and Sawyer occupied the next few minutes by practicing scowling towards the guard watching television. Some stupid British reality TV show was on, and apparently the guard had better things to do – more interesting things to watch – than Sawyer himself. He rocked back on his heels, stepped away from the bars of the holding cell, and let out a little laugh. _If they only knew they had a murderer here…_

He hadn't even heard report of Duckett's death. Maybe they hadn't found the guy. Maybe they wouldn't find him. Maybe he hadn't even killed him anyway. A manic feeling spread through him at that. Maybe he had just dreamed that; maybe it had never existed. But no, that wasn't the case, because the weight of the murder hung as heavy as the muggy Australian air.

"Hey, croc hunter," he called to the guard. The guard hadn't appreciated that the first time that he had heard that, so Sawyer figured a repetition of the nickname would be suitable. "Got a question for you." The guard turned around, stared at him, and he lifted his chin towards the man, stabbing a finger overhead loosely towards the TV. "Can we get something good on besides that crap? Ain't you got 'Die Hard' playing on some cable station out here? It's always playing on some station somewhere back home."

He wasn't going to win friends. He knew that. The guard glared at him for a long moment and turned back towards the TV, muttering something about 'stupid drunk tourists.' Sawyer was no tourist, though, and for a moment he entertained the idea of telling the guy just why he had come here, why he wasn't here to tour that jacked-up opera house or the just as weird-looking bridge.

_Christ, son,_ he told himself, _you're gonna blurt the whole thing out if you don't watch yourself._ But that's what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted to tell the guy more than anything, to explain to him just what had happened. He needed to tell. He needed someone else to know that wasn't trying to screw him over, and much as of a dumbass as the guard was, at least he wouldn't be in it to mess with him.

But he wasn't going to say, though. If they hadn't found the body, he wouldn't be believed, and he didn't think they'd care enough anyway. That Duckett guy was just as bad off as Sawyer himself had been, and there was no need to make matters worse for either of them.

He couldn't say. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, tried to form the words, 'I killed a guy because he owed a guy I know money,' and couldn't even get past the first word. A tightness in his throat stopped the noise from coming out, and he choked down the confession, turned away from the guard and towards the interior of the cell, staring at it. The place was a piece of crap, but he'd lived in apartments that looked worse. If it came down to it, if he had to stay in Sydney for the murder, he could get used to this. He could make this place home just as easily as anyplace else, because there really was no home for him anywhere. Wouldn't be much of a loss. Wasn't anything to go back to in the States.

"Sonny Jim," the guard said, and for a minute Sawyer flinched, wondered how the guy knew his real name, and then realized it was some stupid nickname. "You're gonna get out of here. Call just came through. But because the fellow you picked a fight with was the Minister of Agriculture, we're gonna kick you back to the States. You're in luck."

Fantastic. What was waiting for him there? More failure. Hibbs, delighted at having fooled him, at having sent him to do the murder like some damn puppet. Himself, probably drawing a gun on Hibbs, a few nasty words on the side, and then bringing his murder count to two. Going back to the States wasn't all that it was cut out to be. Still, he smiled as phonily as he could do, nodded at the guard, who was no longer looking back towards him.

"Next time, if you want to pick a fight, pick on the little guys," the guard tossed over his shoulder, not turning around. "You tangle with a Giant Huntsman, don't be surprised when it bites back." What the hell goddamn Paul Bunyan had to do with anything, Sawyer didn't understand. In glancing back towards him, the guard must have seen his confused look, for he elaborated, "That's a spider, mate," before turning back towards his television show.

He wondered: When they took him out of the jail cell, would he put up a fight again? He had when they'd brought him in here, and he probably sounded drunk while yelling at them, but he hadn't been drunk, he'd been sober, intoxicated with anger, not booze. Losers all around him in the police station, some young rich kid pleading with some officer about his sister. American accent, too. He wondered about that, but hadn't gotten a good look at the kid to tell anything more about him. Whatever. The guy and his sister would head home to the States, too, and they definitely had more waiting for them there than he did back in Tennessee.

The process was a piece of cake, too, and he would have been impressed at the efficiency if they hadn't been banishing him from the country. Personal effects, next, tickets on Flight 815 Oceanic Air for hell knows why, probably because of the tabloid potential of his bar fight, and he was pretty much ready to go.

The suburban jail led onto a little grassy pathway, and he stood there for a moment, lighting a cigarette, taking a drag, glaring at the city skyscrapers in the distance. This city sucked. This country sucked.

Disgusted, he shook his head, spat towards the jail. Even if the idiots running the place didn't notice, it still felt good. He couldn't tell what season it was in Australia, and he hadn't been paying enough attention to the world around him to know what season it was back at home. He wanted to get out of this godawful heat, though, and he knew just the place to do it.

There was a hotel near the airport that he'd stayed at when he first got to Australia, one murder earlier. It wasn't the best place in the word, but it'd do to lie there in air conditioning and get away from Australia, its people, its sickening halfass barbecue, everything here. He hated the place, and the anonymous hotel seemed a better choice than mingling with the locals. There was nothing to read in the room but the Gideon's – they'd gotten to this hellhole too, or closest place to hell as the doctor had said – but he was sure he could find something more entertaining. Maybe the phone books.

He took a drag on the cigarette and started walking down the path from the jail. Something stopped him in his tracks, and he felt his mouth dry out. Older guy, worn-out-looking, paunchy and jowled. He recognized the guy. What the hell was he hanging around the jail for? Something about him rattled Sawyer, although he smiled at the guy, raised his voice towards him: "Nice, doc. Real nice." He held up the ticket to LA in a signal. He knew what the guy had done.

The doctor, ex-Chief of Surgery as Sawyer recalled, smiled at him. "Got your ticket, cowboy? You know the slogan: _Fly Oceanic, and leave your troubles behind._"

The slogan chilled him. He really would be leaving troubles behind. Somewhere, near some shithole shrimp shack, was some poor dumb bastard Hibbs had set up for the kill. And Sawyer, the lackey, the errand boy, would be literally getting away with murder, murder which the doctor had told him to do, and now he was getting rewarded for it.

He hadn't once escaped from being the errand boy for someone else. Even now, there was a sense of expectations about these plane tickets. What could the doctor want from him, though? He tapped the ash off his cigarette, stepping closer to the guy. "If this is some sort of a con job…"

The doctor nodded once, as if in confirmation of Sawyer's words. His voice was anything but confirmation, instead sounding highly amused at the halfhearted threat that had been leveled. His jowls rearranged themselves into something approximating a smile, but not quite there. Sawyer had given enough fake smiles of his own to tell one when he saw one, and he felt his eyes narrow, but he couldn't say anything. He had nothing concrete to accuse the guy of, yet. He would have to play his cards close, to find out what he could about why his way had been paid, to investigate this when given the opportunity, not when he was being scrutinized by some Ivy League Yankee medico.

The doctor, or ex-doctor, spoke to him then. His voice was too level to be real, and Sawyer couldn't shake the feeling he was being threatened. "If you were being conned, you wouldn't be going home."


	18. Stand in the Fire

**XVIII: Stand in the Fire**

The heat was staggering, and Sayid did not dare to approach the truck any closer. He could not see any bodies in it, but he was starting to lose the outlines of the truck itself as the flames ate up the vehicle, so the apparent lack of people inside did not surprise him. He knew he should duck, get out of the way, keep his gun close and go find the nearest checkpoint, but he could not do that. He had to radio in, too, but the radio was already a heap of fiery, melted plastic, and whatever else he could do at the moment, he was not naive enough to think he could plunge his arm into the flames and retrieve a working radio.

The flames hit the ground with a roar, and started to spread towards him. The mosque of the Hidden Twelfth Imam offered no sanctuary, doubtless locked and bolted. He felt his knees buckle, but willed himself to stay upright, repeating holy words beneath his breath that he had not been aware he remembered. He had to move. He had to get out of there. He looked around desperately, abandoning both faith and reason to hard, cold panic. There had to be a way out. There must be.

He turned and headed for the mosque. The arches that overhung the doorway would shelter him for a little while, though, and if he kept moving, there was a chance – albeit a small one – that he would be able to stay away from the fire for long enough that firefighters would arrive and douse the truck. He felt alone, absent any of the fellow Guardsmen, and powerless. Nothing could help him. Not the mosque to which he had bolted like a frightened rabbit, not his own wits, which had deserted him. He would have to fend for himself, although as he heard an approaching siren, he hoped that the fire trucks were approaching, and that it was not the signal of an air raid.

The mosque felt solid around him, but he knew he could not rely on its construction to keep him safe. He knew that at any moment a firebomb could hit right where he was standing, and he would have no second chance. He had nowhere to go except to wait for a better opportunity to leave his none too effective shelter, and he was unsure that he would get such an opportunity. He wondered if it was martyrdom to be killed in a holy place. He wondered if he was destined to be a martyr for a religion in which he was inculcated, but did not necessarily believe. That amused him, and he almost smiled.

Then he saw Farouk, and the smile disappeared. The boy had caught fire. He had not been in the truck, for he was not entirely engulfed, had not been consumed whole in the blaze, but he could see the boy, a dark shadow inside the white-hot incendiary, shambling at the mosque like something from a horror movie. He suppressed the urge to run, watching aghast as the boy lurched from pillar to pillar.

"Farouk!" He could think of nothing better to say. The figure looked at him at the name, apparently not having blacked out yet, and Sayid wondered at this before the boy dropped, in flames, to the ground. When Sayid reached the boy, he realized that Farouk was still conscious, and leaned in towards him as the sirens grew louder, as the sound of vehicles braking and water hoses being turned on came to him. The truck would be doused and he would be safe, and the realization that perhaps he should not get so close to a burned and still burning figure, nearly a corpse, did not occur to him. Neither did it seem to matter that he was so close, because the flames did not touch his clothes, his skin. He could feel no heat coming from the fire, and for a moment, he knew he must be dreaming, but he could not wake up, and the sounds and the feeling of the hard mosque floor where he knelt were all too real to be a dream.

"Farouk," he repeated, even Arabic sounding foreign in this circumstance, although he knew no other native languages, "the firebomb. I am sorry. I should have permitted you to go on a search with me. You would have been all right, then. You would have been safe." Any language would have sounded foreign, he realized. What could you say to a man that was about to die? He tried to make out a face beneath all the blackened skin, but could make out nothing except two holes that had once been eyes, and a darker blackness that moved, the boy's mouth. He leaned in towards the boy, removing his overcoat, putting it against the figure to douse as many flames as he could. He wondered that he did not feel hot, at that.

"_Ya 'ammo,_" Farouk wheezed, smoky spittle issuing from his mouth. "I was… supposed to die here. You were supposed to live." Sockets that had once perhaps been eyes but were now ichor and sludge were fixated on Sayid, and for a moment the interrogator thought he was being watched. Farouk's body twitched in its death throes, and Sayid held onto that coat, did what he could to keep the boy comfortable. He wished the fire trucks would have parked closer to him. At least he could have asked them to cool down Farouk. "That's why I asked you if you believed. I… am… they… are… " A spasm shook the body, and Sayid could feel the boy's life leaving him. "… watching."

_Watching what? Or whom? Watching me, certainly,_ Sayid thought, but he could not ask the boy such a question. He could not say anything to the boy, because the heat and burns overcame the figure as he lapsed into either unconsciousness, coma, or death. Sayid suspected that it was the final option.

He leaned back on his heels, raised his hands to stare at them, wondered why he felt no burns on their surface. He saw burns, though, from surface contact with the boy, and as adrenaline started to drift away from him, his hands began to sting. This was not the first time they hurt, however. Each time that he hit a prisoner, they had hurt in the same way, but not so sharply. The dozens of times they had hurt before rang in his head, and his fingers sung with stinging, and the symphony of pain that produced slowly made him lapse out of consciousness.

––

It seemed like seconds later that a voice was urging him up again, "Wake up," spoken in an educated voice. For a moment, he thought it was Nadia speaking. When he knew it was not, he thought perhaps he had dreamed the mosque, Farouk's death, and the enigmatic words that the boy had spoken before he died. The pain in his hands alerted him that all that had happened was very real, that it indeed had happened. His head swum, and he tried to focus, tried to ignore the pain rising in his hands. The woman that had awakened him studied him coolly, dispassionately, evaluating him, and he wondered for a moment at that before deciding it was simple professionalism.

"_Ya Bek Jarrah,_" the woman intoned, watching him. "You will be safe. It is a wonder you were not caught in the firebombing. You made a valiant effort to save your friend, but," her eyes dropped, studying the neckline of her _jupeh_, but he knew the consolation to be fake, professional at best, "he did not survive."

"You say that as if he had a chance to do so," he noted laconically, catching the surprise on her face. It was as if he had caught her in a lie, though he could not think of any lie that she might have told in informing him of Farouk's death. "Where are his remains?" He was unsure why he was asking to see them. Perhaps, after the nurse's giveaway, he wanted to assure himself that Farouk really was dead. "Are they with the guards? Have they left Samarra?"

She had no answer for him. Her face was grave, as good a flat expression as he had seen, better than many interrogators' attempts that he had seen in classes for such skills. She did not look him directly in the eye, studying the pillow on which he reclined, and her eyes drifted further to the side, as if she were trying to think of a lie.

"Where are Farouk's remains?" Sayid pressed. "Farouk Qadir. _Qa, 'alif, dal, ya, ra._ Likely twenty, a new recruit. Where are his remains? I must know that he is dead. I must see it for myself."

"You do not want to see the body," she said, and he sensed truth in those words. There _was_ a body. It was something which he did not want to look at. There was something strange about it, though, and he stared at her, his eyes unmoving, remaining locked on her even as she swung away from the bed and put a roll of fresh bandages into the tray. It was not time to have them changed, but it seemed she was simply restocking them. She seemed aware of his surveillance, too, a strange calculation to the movements that he could not specifically describe.

"I will see the body," he demanded, his voice brooking no argument. He got out of the bed, his head spinning. "You will show me the body, _ya Doctor_. You are being ordered to do so by a member of the Republican Guard." His voice was firm enough that she nodded at last, and he arose from the bed, the bandages on his hands pressing into his skin painfully as he got up. "Thank you," he told her, but she did not reply.

By the time they turned the corner in the hospital, the reason she did not want to take the time to show him the body became clear. The pediatric wing of the hospital was overflowing. _Kala azar_ was at an epidemic. It was the wet season, and the flies were flourishing, the disease spreading, children dying. The nurse had more important work to do than show him a body which he would be unable to identify anyway. He should not have asked her. He should have believed her, should have trusted in her judgment. He stopped short, stared at the throng of sickly children and often grieving mothers that crowded the hallway, saw his nurse draw up short next to him. "Go on," he said, waving her towards the children. "Mind them."

"You will go back to your room? You need to rest for a few more hours before we can release you. Your hands are not yet healed, and neither are they at a point that we can give you bandages and salve and send you on your way. They will heal, but they'll need further care for a little while."

"I will not leave," Sayid assured her. If he meant that he would go back to the room, he would have said that, but he did not. She seemed to take that as fact, though, and as she disappeared amongst the throng to tend to far more serious cases, many of which were already dead, he was already planning how to find Farouk's corpse amidst the hospital. It had to be here, in the moratorium. Finding such a place would be a simple matter, he was sure. He turned in search of it. The uniform ensured that he was asked no questions. He preferred that by far.


	19. Bad Karma

**XIX: Bad Karma**

All of eternity is balanced by dials, working like clockwork. The book says so on the page that he's flipped to, in order to check out what the reading material was like down here. Some damn Irish book from the Sixties. Hippie crap. It received good reviews from the guy that did _A Clockwork Orange,_ the book says, and that can't be bad at all. It looks like a decent read. Sawyer debates the idea of actually looking into it when he gets the opportunity, and slides the book away.

That's not exactly what Sayid wanted him to lift from the hatch for the truck, Sawyer suspects, but who cares? You can only read _Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret_ so many times, and he has read it enough already. The image on the page sticks with him, too. Everything's a machine, the novel says. Everything here is a machine. Synchronized. He hides a brief moment of hesitation at that realization – and he didn't shudder at it, because they didn't see it, so it doesn't count – and looks up towards Sayid and Kate, who are still gaping at the window that he's pointed out to them.

"They're tapin' us," he concludes, wanting to put an end to this surveillance. It bothers him that they've found it fascinating. It's a camera, not a damn work of art, but hell if they don't stand there and gape like idiots. "They've got cameras trained somewhere in that bunker, and they're using 'em. Simple as that." He looks down at the book in his lap, _The Third Policeman_. Lousy title. Hopefully the book will be better. Whomever that sonofabitch de Selby is, too – and they do ramble on about him a lot in that book. Footnotes. Christ. He doesn't get that at all.

Nobody questions his choice of reading material, though, and he's glad for that. "So we should screw up the cameras," he continues, looking from one face to the other for approval and seeing none. Their lack of consideration for his idea only fuels him further, though. He leans into it, feeling his voice gain some enthusiasm for the already discredited suggestion. "We should black 'em out or break 'em up, so that we won't be seen. He waves a hand towards the mass of electronics, whirring away merrily, one of the others having entered the numbers as they came down here to relieve the last guy's shift. "And then we break _that_ up."

Sayid's brows lower at that. He doesn't like the idea. He thinks about it for a moment, though, and Sawyer is surprised at that. _He thinks I'm telling the truth about the computer,_ he realizes, and that shocks him. He hadn't thought that would ever be likely. He watches, though, as Sayid shakes his head. "No," the Iraqi replies. "It was placed down here for our usage, right or wrong. To destroy it before we have figured out the reason for its usage would be stupid."

"Man, you ain't mincing words today, are you?" Sawyer shoots back. "Maybe it's just me, but I don't like havin' this damn thing around. For all we know, it could kill us all like HAL." The reference appears to be lost on the other guy. He glances towards Kate, trying to get her view of the situation. He doubts she'll have an informed opinion, but he at least hopes that she won't try to screw him over, and that she'll side with him.

No such luck, though. She motions towards Sayid, and Sawyer knows then that he's been outvoted, before she even speaks up to confirm the fact. "We should keep the computer working until we know what to do with it. Sayid's right."

_Just like Jack was right. Son of a bitch._ He doesn't say that, though. He shrugs, tosses off a light, "Your funeral," towards the others, and walks over to the window, sliding the paperback into his pocket as he does so. "But this window – what are we gonna do with it? They're listenin' to us now. I know it." He hopes nobody will call him on it, though, because he has no solid proof, just instinct and a bit of deduction. Nothing solid. Nothing real. Nothing is real on this island anyway, though, so they really can't hold him to a high standard. "If you guys don't do somethin' about it, I will. I've got people willin' to help me. Ain't my fault if you guys don't like my plan, either," he concludes breezily, stalking away from them.

If they want to talk with him, they can search him out, not the other way around. He doesn't want to chat with them over this unless they really want to talk to him about it. Besides, and it beats all, but his head has started to ache again, and the last thing he wants is to listen to Mr. Wizard and Lynda Carter discuss what they're going to do, because God knows it's not what he wanted to do.

And damn it if this place doesn't mess with his head too, looking like a Day-Glo Dresden shelter. The place sucks, and he's got something to read and he's got the window taken care of, so let them bitch about whatever they're going to bitch about. None of his business anymore. That's the way he wanted it to start with. Maybe they're staring at him, but he doesn't care. He just wants out, and he stalks towards the exit, checking the waiters' sign above his head that does that messed-up countdown. Sayid and Kate have time to do whatever they're going to do about the window – probably nothing.

He pockets a few tools on his way out, though. No harm in that, except to Jack if Jack misses them, and he doesn't care about that. Sayid told him to pick up things for the truck, and Sawyer figures you can't go wrong with a bunch of tools, even if they're probably medical, not mechanical. All he was told to do was to take stuff, though, and he's doing that, so if he got the wrong thing, it's not his fault.

He's surprised that he manages to scale the stairs without tripping, because last time he went up them he nearly fell flat on his face, but he's up and standing at the top of the hatch and nobody pulls any guns on him, so that works out all right. Green all around him, and if he looks hard down the path, he can make out a little bit of the beach.

Someone's probably going through his stuff, too. He scowls at that, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts stalking that way, thinking of what he'll say. "What the hell are you doing in my stuff?" usually works well, anyway. And then, "Get the hell out of my stuff." And maybe a "Stay the hell out my stuff" for good measure. It's not the most creative repartee, but most people seem to listen to it, and he sees no point in coming up with variations.

"… it'll come back around."

And that's when Sawyer

stops

right

there.

He turns and stares, his heart and head pounding, thinking, _If my head didn't ache, I'd do better. I'd handle this better than I know I will._ He squares his shoulders and stands still for a moment. _Same as the last time. Let the voice come to you, and respond to it. Don't let it get you moving, because if you respond to it, it wins._ He knows that from enough fights. As long as you're not the guy who hits first, as long as you take the first punch instead of give it, you can usually get the second and third hits in while the dumb bastard you're fighting is standing there stunned that you let them hit you. It didn't work in Sydney, but then, a lot of things didn't work there.

Everything is green, and there's no hint of anyone there, but damn it if that voice doesn't start up again. He figures it's taunting him, because it repeats the phrase slower, almost mocking his lack of response. "It'll _come back_ around."

It sounds like a request. It's one Sawyer's not going to dignify with a response. He hangs out there for a moment, letting himself prepare for a fight, his arms and legs loosening a little. There's a rustling in the trees behind him, but no noise, no footsteps, no shadow, so he doesn't turn.

It's good that he doesn't, too, because there off to the right, in a place he would have missed had he turned, is a familiar figure. His throat tightens, and he can feel his hands close, too, but he can't close the distance on the guy before everything, the headache, the vision, lifts, and he doesn't see Hibbs anymore. He must have been seeing things. Just a dark shape in the trees, a hallucination.

He starts for the beach, scowling. He's not going crazy, because he knows the difference between what's real and what's not in what he sees. He's not worried about that, either. But then there's the matter of the low tide at the beach yesterday, and now Hibbs, and if he's honest with himself, that sort of unsettles him. He sees Duckett every time he closes his eyes, but guilt can't explain why he saw Hibbs when his eyes were open, and it can't explain why, when the tide went low, he thought he saw another island.

He can't tell anyone, though. They'll think that he's gone nuts, and they'll tell him to lie down and take it easy, and that's the last thing he wants, over all. They would just make matters worse. He clears some brush out of his path, turning around. No Hibbs. No Duckett. Nothing. "Bring it on," he challenges a nearby tree. He hopes they're somehow listening in.


	20. Lord Byron's Luggage

**XX: Lord Byron's Luggage**

"_Now is the time!" Madden cried aloud, as he drew his pistols._ A line from a book that Desmond read once. A book that is somewhere oceans away, in a box in an apartment that has probably been turned into Work and Pensions housing. The box is probably gone then, too, shipped off to some relative, a cousin of a cousin, or worse, has found its way into a trash-bin to be sorted and tossed away with the rest of the paper trash by fellows who wouldn't know literature if it, like Madden, bore pistols upon them.

Then Madden died, didn't he, in that book? Goes to show you what you get for taking action. You get shot down just this side of the butcher's. Sure that he shouldn't try it, then. But there is nothing else to be done. The boy trusts him and now, now is the time.

He walks away from the containment cells, running over the plan in his head. He needs to get his things together. Gather his stuff. Make sure Kelvin doesn't see any of it. That'll take some doing, and hopefully some cooperation. He knows a lot of the others don't care much for Kelvin. Maybe if he asks nicely, they'll jump at the chance to help him out in tricking Kelvin. He hopes so. He'll have to leave the lava-lamp behind though, and that disappoints him. He's got one back at the hatch, but Lord knows what would happen if he went there now.

He has no debt to the subjects, either, and that thought strikes him uncomfortably like royal privilege. They _are_ the royals on this island, aren't they? They hold the control. They make the rules. They decide what happens. No matter whatever temporary setbacks they may have incurred, they will see this through.

He's done his part, too. They can't fault him for what happened in the long run. Conveniently enough, they can fault Kelvin. Kelvin miscalculated and it cost him, but he, Desmond, did what he was supposed to. So there can't be any problem there. They will help him, his friends, his coworkers. They'll have to help him. The alternative is helping Kelvin, and he's sure that that's no alternative at all.

"Desmond!" Kelvin is moving towards him, double-time, and he draws himself to a stop, fixing the redheaded man with a quizzical look, attempting to look casual, feeling like he's broadcasting all the signs of being up to something even though he isn't yet. He folds his arms, but that feels too defensive, so he straightens them, and stands there uselessly as Kelvin finishes approaching him. "How did your shift with young Mr. Lloyd go?"

"Brilliant," he affirms, knowing it sounds phony. He decides to play with fire, and follows up that affirmation with a broad grin. "It went brilliant," he repeats. "Mr. Lloyd asked for comic books."

Kelvin's face goes flat at that, and he shakes his head. "No. Nothing like that. Nothing with pictures. He reads words, or he reads nothing at all." The short man digs his hands into his pockets, the casualness of the gesture a definite signal that Desmond shouldn't press the issue. "He's ten, anyway, according to our records. He should be old enough to start reading things besides children's books. Can't you give them some of your sci-fi drivel?"

_It isn't science fiction. It's postmodernism._ Desmond suspects the correction will be lost on Kelvin, so he doesn't bother. "Are we gonna do anything, Kelvin? About… recent events, I mean." He pauses, hesitating, thinking, _I shouldn't have said that. Kelvin will not be happy._ He has to allay the Yank's suspicions, and he does so with, "If I can be of any assistance, Kelvin, just say the word, eh?"

Kelvin fixes him with a smirk, but it's a fake one. "Sure," he soft-sells the acquiescence. "I'll do that. What did Mr. Lloyd tell you?" He leans in a little bit, and Desmond can see some stress on the American's face. That chat with Candle mustn't have gone well. A vague moment of satisfaction at that goes away when Kelvin continues, "Knowing you, he probably didn't tell you anything, did he?"

Desmond doesn't know what to say that; he just gapes and spreads his hands. Kelvin looks through him for a moment and then shakes his head, disgusted. "I want to get his trust, Kelvin!" Desmond exclaims suddenly. "I didn't want to ruin things on our first chat. He trusts me. He asked me, Was his father all right? If he didn't have any trust in me, he wouldn't have asked me about that."

An instant later, Desmond is aware that this was the wrong thing to say. Very wrong indeed. Rather than looking disgusted, Kelvin suddenly looks interested in what he's saying. "Good, Desmond. Excellent!" His voice holds teacher's approval. "We'll turn you into a decent employee yet." He grabs hold of Desmond's arm and starts pulling him along. Desmond has no choice but to follow, jogging a bit to keep up with the uncommonly long stride that Kelvin has, despite his lack of height.

"Where are we goin', Kelvin?" Desmond can feel apprehension growing, thinking, _If he does something to ruin the boy's trust in me now, this will never work, and I'll never get the chance to beat him._ He nearly trips over his own feet at the turn towards the containment cells, because Kelvin doesn't take him that way. Instead of turning right, they turn left, towards the staff chambers. The bunks lead off from here, he knows, the furthest down the aisle behind the wall beside them. And then the offices follow.

He's being taken to see Marvin. Of all the things he wants, that's the last one. The only time he and Marvin Candle get along is when Marvin's serving him food, and even then, it's the food that does it, not Marvin himself. He doesn't want to go to chat with the fellow. He'd sooner chat with that damned idiot Southerner again, comparatively. He thinks: _I need to create a diversion,_ but there's no diversion to be created. Maybe Marvin will have omelets again. Those were decent. That's a hell of a thin silver lining to that cloud, though.

"Is this payback, Kelvin?" he wonders aloud, and the surprised glance Kelvin gives him says that maybe he shouldn't have said that. He winces inwardly, hoping it doesn't show on the outside, and Kelvin turns towards the doors to Candle's apartments and ushers him in.

Candle has been expecting them, Desmond can tell. He does not need to sit down or stand up, to put down a phone or turn off a monitor, to turn around or to straighten. He is focused on the door, and as the employees enter, he begins to speak. " 'He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.' Who said that?"

_Byron,_ Desmond thinks. He keeps quiet, though. There is no need to let Candle know that he's aware of things that he doesn't let on. He glances to Kelvin, who is drawing a blank. _So much for the Yanks' educational systems._

"Lord Byron," Candle continues. "And they do hate us, gentlemen. Make no mistake." Squinting at the two, Candle takes a step forward. "They are angry now. But we are also angry. Yes?"

Are there specifics to that anger? Must he be angry at the people from the plane, or does being angry at Kelvin count? Desmond figures that it's probably better not to inquire, and he nods. Of course, Kelvin agrees as well. The damned fool has to open his mouth, though, and talk, even though Desmond could have told him not to talk, had he been asked – would have said that talking now would be troublesome at best, dangerous at worst. However, as Marvin Candle said, Kelvin is indeed angry.

"We need to _do_ something, Marvin. We can't just sit around and wait for – "

"For what?" Candle's voice is quiet. Desmond winces at that, thinking, _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ He figures that he's probably fidgeting, and he certainly can't look Candle in the eye. The Asian man moves closer to the pair of them. "They know we are watching them. We have discovered that. They won't do anything stupid anymore. We will wait until the right time, and then – then we will advance things."

Kelvin lets out an exasperated sigh, the redhead rolling his eyes. "We won't know when the right time is if we don't plan for it."

"Oh, there are plans, Kelvin," Candle replies. "You're just not in on them. You were told that at our private meeting." Desmond is spared a glance at last, but it's unclear if it's one of apology or of exclusion. Either way, there's a definite arm's-length sense about it, and it's plenty odd. Candle's focus returns to Kelvin, however: "You will do as you are told. Not for me, but for what we are doing. 'They never fail who die in a great cause.' "

_Another quote from George Gordon,_ Desmond thinks. Kelvin stays quiet. By now, Desmond is positive that the American has not had a single class in literature at university. He knows Kelvin is bright, has a degree or three to get involved in this, the broadest array of skills of anyone that he knows, but for some reason, basic literacy fails the man. The moment passes, though. Somewhere, something mechanical goes whirring through pipes and conduits, and Desmond spares a glance overhead. Of course, just as he looks away from Candle, signaling that he is no longer paying any attention, is when the man chooses to start talking again. Just his luck. He makes a surprised noise and glances back down again towards his superior.

"You would like something to do, Kelvin? Very well. Go get young Mr. Lloyd." Candle's glance flicks once more to Desmond, and for at least a moment, Desmond is convinced that Candle knows that he is trying a different tack with the child than they have been, and that his sympathies are more on the boy's side than perhaps Kelvin's. "Any problems with that, Desmond?"

Desmond shakes his head quickly. "Not at all!"

"Good. Because I would be very disappointed indeed I it turned out that your goals had changed. I have already had that happen once to me with this program. I do not want it to happen again." Candle's face is impassive, a plaster-of-Paris cast that had once more accurately approximated a real face. "You will encourage Mr. Lloyd to help us. If he does, he'll have his comic books."

_Candle was listening in. Shite!_

Candle allows something that might once have been a smile before the clay mask hardened it, smoothed it, took out the individuality and replaced it with something close to a comedy mask. "And if he helps us, you'll have your books back." Candle dips his head in a bow, and then looks back up towards Kelvin and Desmond. "Go. Both of you."

Now is the time.

Now, now, now. They have to do it now. Not in a few hours. He has to put his plans into action now. Not in a while. He cannot allow this to go on. He cannot allow Candle to have Walt; he cannot allow Kelvin to get the boy. No more. No later. No way. Now.

He walks out of Candle's apartments next to Kelvin, wondering how he can possibly sort things out, how he can make it so that the boy trusts him, so that the boy is not harmed, so that Desmond himself is not harmed, so that the experiment is not ruined. What Candle proposes will ruin it, will ruin everything, and he's already had his computer wrecked, been driven out of his hatch, and made more treks through the jungle in a month than he'd been told he would do in a matter of years.


	21. Follow Me

**XXI: Follow Me**

She is standing there in front of him, and he notices first that she has positioned herself directly between him and the computer. Furthermore, she is staring at him in a way that, if she rattled him, he might call unnerving. Such as it is, he cannot say that he is genuinely afraid of Kate, but neither does that expression so typical to her assuage his doubts. Her brows are drawn together, and her face is poised between confusion, consideration, and what he suspects is a certain frustration that is liable to explode as suddenly and sharply as that of anyone else on the island.

"You have a question," Sayid states evenly, thinking, _I am not sure if I can answer it. I wonder how she will react if I don't know something that she wants to know, for once._ He lifts a hand towards her, signaling that she should ask. Curiously enough, she seems to have waited for such a sign. He has noticed that she's always polite around him. If anything, that only further concerns him.

"Do you think he was telling the truth, about the window?" She is halfway between suspecting Sawyer of lying and, from the slight tremble to her words, very worried indeed that he could be right. Sayid is unsurprised that she waited until the con man stalked off, given the nature of her question, and also unsurprised that she is asking him. He certainly would not say that he believed Sawyer if, indeed, he did not.

However, what can be said? To agree with Sawyer without further investigation would be foolish, idiocy of the highest degree. To tell Kate that he does not believe the man would be a lie, though, and he does not want to run the risk of telling her something she might disprove; he has striven to be honest with her, fully aware that she herself cannot be trusted. Either the interrogator or the person being questioned must be honest; two people lying produces nothing but stalling, frayed nerves, a lack of results, and he does not relish that possibility.

He smiles a little at her, shrugging as if to connote exactly how much certainty he has in the decision he's come to. It's definitely very little confidence. "I think that Sawyer was telling the truth, as he sees it." The irony of saying this to Kate is not lost on him, but it is an observation which he chooses not to share.

"And as you see it?" He should have known that he would not be reprieved quite that easily. She takes a step closer towards him and, conveniently, away from the computer. He takes the opportunity to angle himself for the computer, taking no steps forward, but simply moving so that, if he had to, he could get to the computer first. "He said we're being watched. If we're being watched, then maybe we shouldn't be in the hatch. Maybe we shouldn't use the computer."

"Nonsense," Sayid tells her bluntly, putting on that same small smile to soften the blow. "If we are being watched, we have been watched already. If we have been watched already, then what we do now ought to be unaffected by whatever surveillance they might have. This is different from Australia – " She gives him a strange look at that, but he does not elaborate. " – because they already know, here, and they are known to us, and there is no obfuscation. We want to get off the island. They know this. If they did not know it within the first few weeks, I strongly suspect that building a raft and launching it into open water would have been a definite hint."

She smirks a little at that. "Yeah, I'll bet it would have been," she confirms, though she's studying the window now. Has he been released from the conversation? He doubts it, and watches her as she leans in towards the window, peering at it like she knows exactly what to look for. _That_ is definitely unnerving. She lifts a hand towards the window, palming it as if tracing its surface, and then leans in towards it. He understands too late why she let him get close to the computer, and curses his distraction.

He is too far away to intervene and can only watch as she whisks the screwdriver up and drives it sharply into the window. He is not sure how thickly the glass is tempered, so at first he worries that it will shatter, but when it only seems to fracture around the point of impalement, he is relieved. Then, he realizes, _If there were electronics there, she would have been electrocuted._ And the girl that turns back towards him, looking somewhere between phonily apologetic and oddly satisfied, is not literally a conduit for an electric current. Nervous energy flickers around her face, though, and she looks like she doesn't know what to say to him before she manages a brief, "Sorry" that she doesn't mean one bit.

He blinks a few times, staring, and is momentarily lost for words. If Charlie or Sawyer were here, they would be applauding her appetite for destruction, but he cannot muster such approval. All he can manage is to shake his head slowly, and take a few steps away, as if to distance himself from the madwoman.

"Sayid!" Kate's voice is suddenly plaintive, as she realizes she's been rebuffed. "Don't you want to see what's back there, if anything at all? Sawyer thought there was something back there." She gestures to the damage she's done to the window. "Now we can find out if what he said is true." She corrects herself after a moment: "We can find out if he was right."

_It is not fair of her appeal to my curiosity, and she knows that it is unfair._ He wants nothing more than to keep walking, to avoid the whole situation, but he must mind this. If he does not, she is liable to incur the wrath of Locke or Jack or God knows whom else, and he will as well. He must see that things are put back to rights. It is his responsibility, because Kate can scarcely be trusted to be responsible for herself, never mind the world around her.

"I will take a look," he allows, and he can hear how grudging his voice sounds. He thinks it over for a moment before deciding that, yes, he is indeed satisfied with the way it sounds. He does not want it to be obvious that he's so easily swayed. "On the other hand, you will stay here. If there is something that needs to be done, there needs to be someone here to do it."

"So _I'll_ take a look, then, and you can stay here." Her hand tightens around the screwdriver, and he can tell that she is spoiling for an argument. "Besides, you know mechanical things. I don't. What happens if something like that happens?" She holds herself defiantly, staring at him. "Besides, I've been all through this hatch before. You haven't."

"Kate," he declares, trying his best to sound reasonable, to keep his patience, "stay here and do not destroy anything else. Listen to what I tell you and follow it. Please." He is not in the mood for discussing particulars at the moment. If she indeed wants him to find out what is contained within the window and beyond it, then she will have to be patient and allow him to do exactly that. He notices then that the room has not palpably changed in temperature or let in a breeze, so beyond it does not lie the outside world, he is sure of that. "And if Jack or Locke come, you are to stall them."

He does not trust her, but he knows that she will do as he asks, should he ask it. He has asked her not to break anything else within the hatch, and he knows that she will not. Her motives are uncertain at best, but her cooperation is not. She wants desperately to cooperate, and he has given her an opportunity to do so. It seems that the opportunity comes with questions, however, as she lets out a slightly frantic, "How am I going to – "

Whatever else she might have protested, he does not hear. He is already on his way out of the living area and passing the computer rooms, to see what the corridor might branch off to that leads to the back wall of the false window. He does not get very far, however, before the blonde woman wanders into his path. He recognizes her as one of Ana-Lucia's crew, but does not have a name for her. Upon catching sight of her, he motions her over, telling her, "You were with Charlie when we made it into the hatch, weren't you? What's your name?" He would feel better talking to her if he knew whom she was.

She stares at him for a moment, and he thinks that it is strange how the question seems to unfocus her, making her take a moment before responding. "… Right," she confirms slowly, dubiously, sounding like she's gathering her wits. "Libby. And yes, I was with Charlie."

He starts walking, unsure if she will walk along with him. She does, which surprises him to some extent. "Libby, then. And he said he would break the computer, as did Sawyer. Curious, that. The two of them have little contact with the hatch, but what they have makes them both quite determined to destroy its property."

That should be explanation enough to pique her interest in the matter, and a quick scan of her face reveals that, yes, she is indeed interested in the situation. Her brows are raised, and she looks more than interested: She looks surprised. _What was she expecting?_ He almost asks that very question, but manages to restrain himself. Whatever she had been expecting is not as pressing a concern as is ensuring that nothing else in the hatch progresses without them having figured out the conditions of it, the composition of it, the correlation of it. He must know how this all fits together in a real sense. He will deal with what present-day concerns he can before moving on to the past.

Does this Libby have the same present-day concerns with the hatch? He is fairly certain. But is she interested enough to help him out? He is not certain of that. Regardless, she has some knowledge of the matter at hand, was in the same situation that he currently finds himself in, and he suspects she might know something about the whole thing. "We should talk, and, if you please, you'll help me figure out the whole situation down here. Follow me."


	22. Suzie Lightning

**XXII - Suzie Lightning**

As they stood in the parking lot to Jeannie's apartment, Sawyer thought, _We must look like drunks._ He wasn't sure that was too far from the truth. She swayed tipsily, shushing him. He wasn't sure what he'd said that needed to be stopped. She pulled out a key, turning it in the lock. "We're home," she announced. He wasn't sure that was right. She was home, at least. He couldn't say the same.

As she opened the door, he stood and stared, but not at her. He was suddenly preoccupied with watching a beam from something – ambulance, maybe; cop car, probably – sweep up into the apartment complex, casting weird shadows on the wall, illuminating a single word of the complex's signage. He stared at it for a long moment before her voice distracted him.

"Well, are you coming in or not?"

She sounded impatient. He didn't know why. He gave her a quick smile, though, nodded and grinned and ignored the fact that she was looking at him strangely. Things didn't seem to be working exactly right tonight, for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

"Booze," she announced like she was heralding a great discovery. "You left the Volunteers shirt here last time you were here. You want it back?" She didn't wait for an answer, leaning into the cabinets of the Pullman kitchen and emerging from them with two glasses and a bottle of beer. He didn't recognize the label, but if he had to guess, he would say it was that fortune-telling Chinese crap. With the lines. "Nothing real. Sorry." She indicated the bottle, her words still staccato. "Local brewery. Sit. Drink."

She sat on the sofa, put the bottle on the coffee table, poured, and drank hers. Following her lead, he collapsed next to her and emptied his own glass.

The place was small. There was too much heavy furniture. The fireplace was fake. There was too much lace hanging around the place for a thirty-year-old woman. There were too many little odds and ends, end tables and oddities that Sawyer thought didn't belong. The place didn't look real. It didn't look lived in, despite the Tennessee jersey she'd borrowed from him a few days ago that was now draped over an armchair. It looked like a theatrical set or a Salvation Army storeroom, and he wondered how she could live in a place like this.

He glanced away from her and saw a photograph of her, bright red hair and serene expression. He couldn't imagine her looking like that in real life. _Strange,_ he thought, _how tied to faces we are._ The photo in the silver frame wasn't her. It was her face, but it wasn't her at all.

"You feeling OK?"

"Yeah, sure." Sawyer glanced up to see the girl staring at him, like somehow she expected a different answer. She wasn't going to get one, though. He leaned back against the sofa, thinking, _Every time I come to visit her, I think she acts more and more strangely._ He would have to ask her about it one of these days. "Fine," he insisted, and at last she looked away.

She had to think hard about her words. He could tell. He saw how her eyebrows drew together, etching lines in her forehead he hadn't expected a thirty-year-old would be capable of making. "You're not worried, James?"

He blinked a few times, felt himself form words that he didn't hear himself pronounce. She stared at him, as if awaiting an answer, and he shook his head, more forcefully than he had intended. "Worried about what?"

Jeannie shook her head, not answering him. He could have sworn that she looked like she was trying to figure something out, but he wasn't sure what, only knew that, in the long run, he probably didn't want to know. She decided against whatever she was figuring, or came to a conclusion, whichever, and leaned back on the sofa as well. Her gaze followed his, to the ceiling. She was silent.

It wasn't a comfortable sort of silence, though. It was uncomfortable to say the very least, the sort of silence where you know that you should say something but you haven't got the faintest idea what to say. Sawyer hadn't imagined that he would be at a loss for words, but he was, and he watched her closely.

The sign outside, the word that he had seen, said '4815.' _4815 what?_ he wondered, realizing he didn't really know Jeannie's address. He'd never been here during the day. He would have to get her address. He would, later. When they were both sober. He looked towards her, and caught her looking at him. Most times, when he caught women staring at him, though, they weren't spacing out. She was. There was a strange glassiness to her eyes, and he smiled at her, tried to see if the hardness in her gaze would lift, and was surprised when it didn't.

"I want you to know,"she began haltingly, "that whatever happens, James, I do care about you."

His first thought was, _I wish I could say the same,_ but he knew better than to tell her that. Instead, covering for what he knew he couldn't possibly tell her in return, he let out a laugh, a bit drunkenly. "That a threat?"

The red sofa looked like something from the Jetsons. It was way too modernly styled for the rest of the room, he realized suddenly, with the sudden certainty that came from a decent grasp of details. It didn't work with the lace and the knickknacks strewn throughout the rest of the room. Someone who decorated their apartment in lace and curvy-legged furniture would not own a sofa like that. He wanted an opportunity to ask about the apartment's belongings. He doubted that he would get it.

She seemed almost like she was going to acquiesce before thinking better of it. "I care about what happens to you," she said instead, her words suddenly sharp, her gaze suddenly swinging down from the ceiling. "And it's because I care about what happens to you that I think now's the time we talk about –"

Sawyer sat up a little bit. "Nothing's going to happen to me."

"Of course not," Jeannie said, and he could tell that she was lying. He smiled flatly at her, but if she noticed his expression wasn't genuine, she didn't let on. Instead, she concluded lightly, "I just want you to know."

"Sure," he responded. His voice was flat. He'd wanted to make sure of that. "But since you've brought up the subject, darlin', let's talk about it. You askin' me to move in or something?" He shook his head, sprawled back on the sofa, thought he saw a note of deliberate disagreement on her face. "Ain't gonna happen. You know that. You've known that for _years_. If and when I'm in Florida. That's it."

"That's not what I'm talking about, James," Jeannie protested. She didn't tell him specifically what she was talking about, though, and in time, he didn't remember to ask her, either. When some damn girl singer started singing and Jeannie stopped talking and drunkenness closed in on him like the iris of a camera, he figured, he probably forgot all about it.


	23. The Sin

**XXIII: The Sin**

"So what have you done? You've been living like a hermit in this boarding house; you must have done something," Nasim insisted. The boy had showed up at the boarding house just outside Piccadilly a few hours ago, and had demanded first to be let in to the apartment, something which Sayid did not particularly care to do, and then to be told all about what Munir had asked to be studied. This last requirement was one which Sayid had spent the last few hours trying his level best not to fulfill, feeling more like the questioned than the questioner. The boy knew how to wheedle answers out of people, and Sayid was on his guard.

The boarding house's kitchen was in a small room on the ground floor, below the staircase to the raised entryway. It was dark and a bit dingy, but the food was good, stewed tomatoes, orange juice, toast, mushrooms, and eggs. The proprietor of the place had given him a strange look when he had asked to leave out the bacon, but he had obliged, and for that, Sayid was glad. He could not bring himself to eat a full English breakfast, but he noted with some degree of dismay that Nasim had no problem eating the bacon. He was not expressly certain why it bothered him, but it did, and it was yet another reason for him to be suspicious of the teenager.

"Munir says," Nasim broke into his thoughts, swallowing a slice of tomato whole, "that he doesn't think you're doing anything, really. He thinks that you're just trying to trick him."

Sayid felt a sudden panic shoot through him. He seized the silverware a little more tightly, stabbed a bit of food with more vigor than he had intended. "He said that?"

Nasim shook his head, and for a moment Sayid wondered if he was contradicting his previous statement. "Not exactly. But he _did_ say that he thought that you weren't telling him the truth when you said that you would do this. He said that, 'He made me swear to God that I was not using him for terrorism, but he did not swear to anything himself.' And he thinks that's a gyp, Mr. Jarrah."

Sayid had to suppress the desire to scoff at the information. He had taken every pain to assure Munir of his faithfulness, of his unwillingness to fool the rich man, just as he was similarly unwilling to play the fool. Now Munir distrusted him, and for what reason? Simply because he was taking his time with the discovery. Munir was not the fellow tasked with the calculations, and Sayid knew himself for a steady worker. he had thought Munir had likewise respected him. However, from what Nasim told him, it sounded like the aristocrat thought anything but.

The idea to double-cross the man did not hit like a sudden strike. It nagged, tugging at his thoughts, at first a gentle couple of pulls, and then stronger, as if it were towing his mind in that direction. He would not double-cross Munir because he owed anything to the British. He would not double-cross him merely because he did not like him. He would do so because the man had provided him with little details and was expecting his compliance, just like he had been treated when a soldier. The idea of rebellion was suddenly quite attractive. He had spent over a decade being a soldier, but he had no need to be one of Munir's soldiers.

Rather than share the revelation, Sayid kept a close hold on his expression, watched Nasim as the boy invested himself wholly in the pursuit of finishing off breakfast in its entirety, crumbs and all. He took a moment to allow the idea to settle, to go through what he was going to say to Nasim a few times. He must be careful. The boy was an idiot in a lot of ways, but Sayid had noticed a certain cunning perception in him. If he sounded odd, Nasim would recognize it.

"Nasim," he said the boy's name, waiting until the youth looked up, "I am afraid that I am going to need some more time. These probabilities are difficult, and there are a lot of variables. If spending more money bothers Munir," he began, but the boy cut him off.

"It won't," Nasim assured him, sounding supremely confident. He emptied his orange juice in a single sip, and Sayid could have sworn that it had been almost full before the boy picked it up.

_Only the rich can sound like that about spending money,_ Sayid thought. "Regardless," he continued, "if the idea does bother him, then you can tell him that I will not need the money. I have some I saved and I do not need his for another week."

He thought: _In that week, I'll have time enough to investigate. Time to figure out precisely for what purpose Munir wants me to research airplanes._ It was always the lucky aristocratic sons that were terrorists, but he could not see Munir as enough of a fanatic, or even simply enough of an agent for change, for that pursuit. The man would have to be involved in something purely for money, and terrorism was a place to lose money, not gain it.

"All right." Nasim set his glass down, studying Sayid, scrutinizing his face for details. Sayid tried to think of what the boy might be used to looking at that closely, and could not see him as an academic. Perhaps the boy was an avid fan of video games. He could easily see that being the case. "Mr. Jarrah, Sayid," the boy tried to find a name for him, and Sayid was not sure why, but the sudden familiarity bothered him a little, "what are you so worried about? It's a scientific study, is all. The way you're acting, you sound like you think it's sixes and sevens." Then, after a moment, the explanation: "A mess, that is."

"You do not?" Sayid retorted. The question caught Nasim by surprise. "Look at it this way: Your cousin acquires my name and, thereafter, my services. He tells me to research things. Why he needed to hire me instead of hiring someone who was native to London, I do not know. He is unwilling to tell me many of the details of what I am supposed to be doing, preferring instead to leave the details to his younger cousin who is, and you will pardon me, not the most closed-mouthed fellow out there." He was not hungry anymore, and pushed his plate away. "Either he is desperate for the help, or there is something else going on here – more than just me being asked to help him with the statistical end of it."

Nasim looked at him for a long moment, and then began, "_Abu_, I think you're barmy, but I'll ask Mu – "

"You will do nothing of the sort. You will find out for me what the details of this survey are, and you will tell him nothing." Sayid considered for a moment, adding, "Whatever Munir pays me, I will pay you a third for your services. I can afford no more." It was a hefty sum, he knew, but it was also very likely more than the boy had ever gotten from Munir. It would be enough to sway Nasim's sympathies, he hoped. He watched closely to see if the boy was amenable to the offer and was pleased to find that, indeed, he was. He only hoped that bribing Nasim would be enough of an inducement for the young Brit to cooperate.

_Strange, that I think of him as British. The British probably think of him as foreign, perhaps Arab. Maybe a few know he is Iraqi. I wonder if he really is either._ Sayid set his napkin on the table and stood to rise, his eyes on the boy. Nasim did not look away. _What I am doing is good,_ Sayid thought. _I cannot in good conscience participate in whatever Munir's plans are without knowing what they are, and Nasim is my only way to discover the nature of those plans._

Normally, Sayid would have expected an _al salaam a'alaykum_ from whomever he had been chatting with. He did not expect such from Nasim, nor did he receive it. Instead, Nasim told him, "Cheers, mate," and promptly scrambled up the steps from the sunken kitchen to Gower Street beyond.


	24. Figurine

**XXIV: Figurine**

Things were starting to blur. The noise in the place was like sandpaper on her veins. She had expected a more sedate affair, but the alcohol and the constant chatter had kept her buzzing ever since she had entered the business suite. Dr. Lee had called it a party, but she had not believed him. Now, looking at the sumptuously arrayed surroundings, she could believe it more easily. She wanted to tell Dr. Lee, _I see what you meant. This is what you meant, and I believe you now. _But she had not seen him since she had arrived at the hotel, and she was not sure if she would see him again tonight. It was strange, too. He had been so insistent that she come, and now he had all but abandoned her to her own devices here.

She didn't know what to do. She was uncomfortable with this. She had laughed at dozens of bad jokes and had trotted out the plastic smile hundreds of times. This was aggravating. She had better things to do. At least the catering that the Carlyles had brought was all right, even if she couldn't force that much of it down, given the current circumstances. The Carlyle boy had stayed to mind the catering, and though Libby would have preferred to talk to him than to listen to the finer points of psychology from the Esfandiary Group, the rules dictated that she had to act like a real party guest, and so she resolved to try her best to do so.

It was a difficult task, though, with the waiting and the throat-clearing and the my-that's-interesting-you-don't-say spiel that she had perfected over the past few hours. She had caught a few sympathetic glances from the Carlyle boy – what was his name again? She wanted to get him to talk, because then perhaps Norman would notice him and remember his recommendation. So Libby used any time she got free from the rigors of annoying conversation with even more annoying people to work her way over to the buffet table.

_They'll think I'm fat,_ she mused, and that entertained her. Let them think that. That was a better alternative than they knowing the truth. The canapés would hide her real motives, and she offered the Carlyle boy a bright smile. "Boring night, isn't it? We met already, but…" A hasty little gesture that sufficed where explanation lacked.

"Boone," the boy said – young man, actually, Libby realized, figuring him for a college student, or perhaps a few years down the road. "Boone Carlyle. Carlyle Catering. Well," he added, laughing and gesturing down at the table, "I guess you can tell that, right, Doctor?"

Libby saw no need to inform him that she wasn't a doctor. Instead, she smiled quickly, nodding. "Yeah. I can tell. You've done a good job. Let me tell you," she added, leaning in conspiratorially, "I think I like the food better than the party."

The boy looked confused, and Libby wondered why. Had she said something wrong? She glanced quickly over her shoulder for Norman, but he was somewhere else, talking about something else with someone else, and she was relieved. The last thing that she wanted was for him to wander over this way when she was very possibly screwing up the whole thing. She planted a hand on the tablecloth of the buffet table, in hopes of signifying to Carlyle she wasn't about to leave yet.

"Sorry," she added. "I think I've had a little bit too much to drink."

That brought a laugh from the boy. "You haven't had too much to drink. Try frat parties – _that's_ a lot of drinking!"

She stared, almost starting in shock. Had she misjudged him? The boy seemed steady enough, even though his sister could be potential frustration, and here he was talking about frat parties. She hadn't thought him to be the sort. She couldn't allow him to see that sort of calculation, though, and so she smiled. "I used to go to those sort of parties in college too. I haven't been to any out here in California, though. I'll bet you they're fun. All that surfing."

"I don't surf," Boone Carlyle said. "I don't want to break a leg."

Libby smiled, telling him, "I can't blame you."

"Elizabeth!" Norman was heading their way, and Libby realized that then was her chance. She could introduce Norman to Carlyle, and they could hopefully hit it off. Norman had said that he considered Carlyle a good candidate from the looks of the kid, and hopefully that would hold true. She wondered what sort of benefit she would get from recommending the boy, and felt a thrill, almost like a headhunter. She would have expected to feel guilt, but, curiously enough, none surged through her at the moment.

"Norman," she said, sounding more surprised than she realized, "I hadn't expected you. You were talking with me about that internship program before; allow me to introduce you to – "

Boone Carlyle was no longer looking at her, and neither was Norman. Norman was looking at the catering heir. The young man was looking over Norman's left shoulder at an approaching figure. Libby turned on a heel, inwardly cursing the four-inch spike as she wobbled a little, hoping desperately nobody would see. They couldn't have cared less, though, from what she saw. She had never thought that Carlyle could have recognized anyone in the party, but he had, and that surprised her.

"Hey, Mark, how you doing?" Carlyle said, and moved from behind the catering table. Libby turned to watch, drawing closer to Norman. She wanted to be near him if there was something she had to say to him. Nothing yet had sent things downhill, but she was getting a feeling that something just might. She passed up the tray that was brought to her by one of Carlyle's friends or employees, if there was a difference.

At least Mark was recognizable. She knew him. She smiled at him, thinking, _If he takes the credit for this, I won't be happy._ Boone Carlyle shook the newcomer's hand enthusiastically and turned his dark head back towards Libby and Norman. His tone strove for a formality it was too young and energetic to achieve. "You folks – uh, the two of you know Mark Boswell?"

Libby nodded. She let Norman speak.

Norman told Carlyle, "He's a friend of ours." There was something curiously clipped about his tone, distinctly unhappy, and she could have sworn she saw the fingers on the hand borne by his good arm clench a little in frustration. Other than that, Norman Lee might have been as calm as anyone else, but she knew him too well. "Mark, you'll excuse us for a moment?"

Mark nodded quickly. "Sure, Dr. Lee. Whatever you say. I – uh – I came to tell you I have to be taking off anyway. I've got a wedding to get to. Another one, yeah." Something that she couldn't quite distinguish passed between Dr. Lee and Mark, but it was gone before she could ask about it. Mark told Carlyle, "Get this, this guy – he knew me from when we were real little kids, before Debbie and me moved south from Boston and my mom married into money. And so all of a sudden, when he got married a few years back, he asked me back for his wedding. Big-shot doctor, no less. What a trip, huh? But that's not the one I'm going to."

The young man was not sure how to take that; Libby watched him try for a nervous smile and fail miserably. "Yeah," the Carlyle kid said, sounding unhappy for a moment. "Hell of a thing. It's nice that you're meeting up with him again."

If Boone Carlyle was unhappy, Norman Lee was even less happy. "_Mark_," he said, his tone sharp. Mark retreated somewhere that Libby could only think of as offstage, and Norman smiled at the boy. "Sorry for the distraction from your work, Mr. Carlyle."

Libby felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach at that. She had ruined her own chances at sorting things out. She grimaced as Norman led her away from the table, shaking his head. "I'm not disappointed at you," he said, but she knew he was lying. She knew him well enough to sometimes be able to tell that, and now he was taking no pains to hide his disgust at the situation.

Once he had escorted her far enough away that the conversation was no longer a lure, he turned her by the arm. "The Carlyle children are your responsibility, Elizabeth. But I don't want Mark around them. He has enough work with the wedding and other things already." Thin lips pressed together, curved up in something that might have been called a smile. "More important work, that is. The children are _fine_."

Fine was many things, but Libby was sure at that moment that 'fine' was not a good thing for Boone Carlyle and his sister to be. She made a point of keeping her mouth shut, especially when Norman made it clear that the redheaded fellow that had just entered made for far more pressing conversation. She retreated once more behind champagne and hors d'oeuvres and could have sworn that they were discussing neurosurgery.


	25. Real or Not

**XXV: Real or Not**

Sawyer had expected her to come up with some excuse. She could have come up with quite a few. "I didn't drug you" would have been a decent start to any number of them, and he would have believed it, maybe. She offered no such explanation or excuse. Instead, she only looked at him, waiting patiently for him to wake up. "I'm sorry," she said, and he thought that she should have been a hell of a lot sorrier for spiking his drink, and he should have been a hell of a lot smarter. Anyone with brains would have seen that coming.

He pushed himself to sit up, studying her. She spread her hands helplessly, in a gesture of self-defense. She didn't seem terribly worried about him, though, sitting there with her hands on her knees, and her head cocked slightly, birdlike, to figure out what he was going to do next. He should do something, shouldn't he? The notion struck him as good, although his fingers felt fuzzy and his tongue felt thick, and he couldn't work out a good plan. All of his cons, and here he was, sitting, waiting for someone who had attacked him to make the first move. _You stupid son of a bitch_.

"We need to talk," she said crisply, just repeating the last assertion she'd made. Her brows drew together, but no other part of her face moved. Had she always been this businesslike? He stared, eyes wide, trying to figure out what this was all about. Sure, he'd been screwed over, but there had to be a reason for it. Jeannie had the reason.

"You thought I was there by chance in Miami. I wasn't, James."

"Come to see me?" Sawyer grinned at her automatically. "Well, darlin', I appreciate the compliment of your traveling all that way, but listen, I ain't exactly in the business of paying for travel in the exchange rate of – "

"No, just like you didn't come to see me," Jeannie returned flatly. Her eyes were sharp on him, and he sobered as best he could while half-drunk and recently drugged. "I was there working."

He nodded. His head stung. "At a diner just like every other goddamn place from here to the Mason-Dixon line. Yeah, I know."

Her face closed off further, and she looked past his left shoulder. He knew that trick. He'd used it lots in school. She still couldn't look him in the eye. Her face was tight and her eyes were cold, and she paused for a moment, her fingers twisting around one another. Something was making her not want to talk about what she needed to talk about, and he couldn't figure out why. It raised his hackles plenty, though, and he wondered why he was afraid. _That _was dumb, sitting here being worried about some damn silly thing like why her apartment didn't fit together quite right.

"I was there working," she continued, her voice halting and slow, "for a company. We're undercover."

His throat tightened. "Cops?"

She shook her head quickly. "No. But like I told you, we'd like to talk to you. We want your help in a little project we're working on."

"I don't look that good in a tinfoil hat."

She smirked, but there was still that weird tension to the expression. "It's not that, James. It's nothing wrong."

He hadn't said there was anything wrong, so the fact that she felt the need to bring it up fired his senses. Alert, he stared at her, trying to see some sort of fanatic craziness in her eyes, glancing towards the exit. He could leave. She wouldn't beat him to the door. Something was keeping him there, though. It was the sort of curiosity that had gotten him in trouble before. Her choice of words continued to nag at him. "We – this company – what the hell are you talkin' about? What's the company?"

Jeannie's response was unexpected. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's some _X-Files_ stuff. You're acting spooky enough about it." Sawyer didn't care, though. Whatever she was doing, it was none of his business, no matter how much she seemed to want to make it his business. He knew better than to press, but he wanted to find out anyway. "And why does your tinfoil hat crowd care about me?"

She shrugged. Her eyes traveled over his hand on the sofa, and as he glanced down too, he was reminded of how wrong the mod sofa was, compared to the rest of the apartment's grandmotherly furnishings. How much time between them had been real, and how much had been an act? He knew women. He should have been able to tell. Everything had gotten weird suddenly, though, and maybe Jeannie was a better con artist than he was. He didn't like to admit that it was a possibility, but it was.

"I don't think that you're ready to know that yet."

Frustrated, he snapped back, "Why the hell not?!"

Jeannie simply shrugged, looking past him, looking dismissive. She was bored of his conversation now, and he wondered why his reaction had not been what she'd wanted. Had the conversation been planned without him being aware of it? "Do you think you can get me something else from a Volunteers game?"

His body tensed, and for a moment, as wrong as he knew it was, he felt ready to smack her. _Just like dad,_ he thought, and the realization cooled his heels and settled his hand. He let out a frustrated noise and sat there watching her. He wasn't about to get it out of her by bullying her for answers. He would have to find another, more subtle way to do it. It would have to be sometime when she wasn't there, and he would have to be quick as he possibly could do.

If the sofa was what was wrong with the place, it wasn't a bad place to start looking the next morning, once Jeannie went off to the Pollo Tropical. Checking the cushions revealed nothing but spare change. Running a finger along the plasticene cushions showed him that the couch hadn't been in the apartment long enough to accumulate dust. Jeannie had lived here for at least a year. She was neat enough, but she wasn't meticulous – the coins had fallen through, but the cushions had never been flipped. The sofa had been placed here much later than she'd moved in.

It bothered him though, that big cherry-colored piece sitting there like the proverbial red flag. It wasn't Jeannie's. Maybe – He knelt on the wall-to-wall carpeting, winching himself between the side of the sofa and the wall, shoving a hand underneath the draped fabric that touched the floor. The tag was around here somewhere, if it was made in a factory.

The fake-silk feel of the tag alerted him, and he seized on it and yanked, his arm withdrawing from beneath the furniture, his prize in hand. He sat up, resting his head on the arm on the sofa, and drew his legs up Indian-style to study the tag.

_DI. 4815_. The same numbers as Jeannie's apartment. That couldn't be coincidence. He wasn't that superstitious, but the odds of something like that had to be astronomical. _FORD, J_.

Now that was something special.

He turned over the tag in his hands. So the sofa was intentionally there, and it had been planted to draw his suspicion. But by whom? And for what purpose? And why was Jeannie in on it? He figured now why she couldn't tell him – he was the target of _something_ -- but he wondered what it was. Someone knew his name, someone who had gotten it from Jeannie.

This was a sham, he realized. Someone was conning him. He wouldn't let them. He tucked the tag in his jeans pocket and pushed himself up to stand, his legs threatening to give way. He was lightheaded, but he was determined. He had another place to check, and he wanted to find out what he could from it while Jeannie was still at work.

Jeannie didn't keep a diary, but he had her E-mail password. They'd shared passwords a while back, and the only thing she had uncovered of his that was at all incriminating was the typical Playboys. He'd been careful to keep his con jobs away from her sight, and he hoped that she hadn't been similarly careful with her own con.

Three advertisements for spam, and then, buried within the whole thing, an E-mail from someone – Norman? Who the hell was called Norman nowadays anyway?

DH-4815. Subject is to be approached. Advance the idea of vitrification. If reluctant/questioning, cease offer. If subject asks about apartment layout, namely supplied pieces, consider successful; cease contact.

Successful at what? He stared at the screen, hardly believing what he was seeing. The E-mail ended with legal gibberish or doctoral gibberish – he couldn't tell which one. In any case, the only thing keeping Jeannie here was the fact that he hadn't asked about the damn sofa. He was being tested for something, and he thought maybe he should look for cameras.

_Namaste and good luck._ FM-2030.  
_  
More goddamn numbers,_ he thought. _Great_. He reached for his cellular phone and clicked the close window on the browser. He didn't want to print out the E-mail. Jeannie would know that he'd read it if she found the printout. She might even know that he'd read it just from him reading it, but that was water under the bridge now.

He knew the number to the Pollo Tropical by heart. He hadn't ever expected to make this phone call, but he had a choice to make, and the con he'd planned with Hibbs for a few days later was the perfect excuse to leave Miami. Whatever the hell vitrification meant anyway.


	26. Glossary

Please note: I speak pidgin Irish, no Romany, no Arabic. I may very well have screwed up any of the below.

**Arabic**

abu: 'uncle.' Used as slang term for an older man.

ad Da'ud: Ibrahim 'Abd ar-Rahman ad-Da'ud, Republican Guard leader named minister of defense after the 1968 coup, presumed anti-Ba'athist and exiled to Jordan in 1968.

al salaam a'alaykum: 'peace be upon you.'

argilah: pipe.

Ba'athists: The briefest definition ever: Saddam Hussein's political party in Iraq.

bel salaam: 'peace.' Greeting.

bismillah: 'in the name of God.'

ghusl: full ablution in Islam. I had Sayid follow Sunni practice.

hadith: folk tradition in all branches of Islam, with varying beliefs amongst the traditions.

hajj: Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca.

hijab: Muslim modest dress.

ihtaris - al-Jarrah ilhadun wa zindiqun: 'beware - Jarrah is a heretic and an atheist' (had someone check out the Arabic on this, but if I have it wrong, please feel free to correct me.)

Isa: 'Jesus.'

jahsh: 'dumbass,' but not quite as harsh.

mahdi: Islamic messiah.

Qa, 'alif, dal, ya, ra: Q-A-D-I-R.

sadikie: 'pal.' Informal.

salaam: 'peace.' Non-literally, a style of bowing.

shahadah: pronunciation of faith in Islam, or Islamic creed (Sayid recites it in 'Solitary' when Danielle traps him.)

shamal: A particularly bad type of desert wind.

Sidi Mohammed: Muslim ruler of Morocco in the mid-1850s, famed for an impressive court.

sukran: 'thank you.'

takbir, tahmid, tahlil, and tasbih: Muslim recitative prayer, obligatory.

ya 'Ammo: Informal title of respect to someone a generation older or younger.

ya Bek: Formal title of respect used for police and military officers.

ya Doctor: 'Doctor,' 'Professor,' etc. General formal academic title.

ya Sidi: General title of respect. Formal title for police and politicians, not used in official communications.

yalla: 'let's go.' Informal.

**Irish (Gaelic)**

mo chara, nár lagaí Dia do lámh: 'my friend, may God not weaken your hand.'

Sassenach: Saxon (English).

siúl: 'walk' (declarative.)

slán agat: 'safe by you.' Non-literal 'goodbye' (by the leaving person).

slán leat: 'safe with you.' Non-literal 'goodbye' (by the person who is left).

**Other Languages**

ja wohl: 'yes!' (emphatic.) German.

kafes: 'cage.' Turkish.

kala azar: 'black fever.' Hindi. (Leishmania donovani.) Parasitic disease of the internal organs spread by sandflies.

punji sticks: camouflaged stakes tipped with poison or worse.

spiuni baro: 'spy man.' Romany, the Rom (aka Rroma or "gypsy") language.

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